Chapter Seventeen

The theatre was busier than ever. The new show that had begun while she was away was still early in its run, and the cast and crew were working out the kinks in the scene changes.

Penelope helped with run-throughs all day. At long last, she plopped into a seat with some food from the buffet backstage, readying to return home.

Will Michael be here with a date this evening? Will it be the same girl I saw him with twice before?

She rose and meandered toward the costume closet. Flipping through the costumes, she remained uninspired. She had used several, and others had gone in trades to other theatres as productions changed. Toward the back, she unearthed a young girl’s dress. She touched her pocket. She had made a batch of ginger sticks two days before—her favored recipe to uplift her spirits—and she had wrapped one and brought it as a snack. But the day had been too busy today to even think of it, much less eat it. Recalling her naïve approach to the auction, she eyed the girlish dress. That and the ginger stick should strike a chord for Michael.

With a snap decision, she whipped out of her dress and into the girlish high-necked dress with a smock and no waist and grabbed low-heeled ankle boots. A dark wavy-haired wig for disguise went over her hair, the wig left down. Adding a tinge of pink to her cheeks, she checked to ensure she looked several years younger. Realizing her breasts in her stays were not those of a younger girl, she removed the dress and stays and grabbed a light scarf. She wound the fabric around her chest to flatten it as much as possible before redressing without the stays. Candy in hand, she headed out front.

She hovered in the lobby, trailing behind a couple of an age that could support having a daughter of thirteen or fourteen. When they entered the theatre to find their seats, she veered off to trail behind another couple she targeted. The crowd swelled as the performance time neared, more groups entering to greet friends before finding their seats. She inched her way toward the stairs that led to the private boxes.

The air around her stirred, and she knew without turning that Michael had arrived. Looking around, everyone else appeared oblivious. Only she was so attuned to him.

She stepped back into the curtain by the stairs to his box and watched.

His favorite hat made its way through the crowd, along with a wake of plumes from women’s millinery behind him.

She caught glimpses of his face as he neared and raised the ginger candy to her mouth, licking it so it would not stick to her lips.

One last person shifted, and he was striding toward her.

Her tongue ran up the other side of the stick before it disappeared between her lips, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked it, staring into his eyes.

His gaze caught hers, his eyes widening as he recognized her. He took in the costume and the candy and the pose. His abrupt stop caused the woman behind him to bump into him. His lips parted, a quiet groan emerging before the woman said something to him.

Stepping aside, he muttered, “My apologies, Mother. You know the way. Please go ahead.”

Penelope spared the woman another quick glance, curious about this person Michael spoke of so much. She refocused on him as she drew the savory treat out of her mouth, her lips fighting the motion of her hand the whole way. Then, dropping her gaze, she brushed by him as he stood statue-like, making sure to skim her hip along his.

His hand dropped as though to grab her or adjust his length in his breeches. She wasn’t sure which, but she did not intend to stay and find out.

She forged her path past the others in his party to see who accompanied him. Sure enough, the same young lady was there for a third time—Lady Grace, if Penelope remembered correctly.

Something cracked wide open inside her. She was pretty sure it was her heart, despite her assurances to Leah. She was almost out of time.

****

Michael climbed the stairs, still trying to talk himself out of visiting Penelope even as he gained the upper floor of her house.

You must stop this. You are going to offer for Lady Grace any day. You must wean yourself off this, this, paramour!

He winced as his subconscious used his mother’s label for members of the demi-monde. Then he told his subconscious to go to hell and snicked open the door to Penelope’s bedroom.

A single glance at her sleeping form, one candle still lit as was her habit on nights he might visit, and his cock rose. His throat tightened at the thought of not having this view, this woman in his life. Shaking his head to avoid any more thinking, he slipped his cravat free and sat on a footstool to remove his boots. After shucking the rest of his clothes in seconds, he climbed into bed behind her and scooted her form back against him. She mumbled something, snuggling in, before waking a bit more and trying to turn around for him.

“Ssshhh, sleep,” he whispered, tightening his grip to keep her in the curve of his body. She reached for his hand, nestling it with hers under her breast, effectively wrapping him around her as a blanket. Her head relaxed into the pillow, and she murmured his name as she fell back asleep.

Michael lay awake. Smelling her hair and a lingering scent of ginger, he freed his hand with a slow tug, groaning as it slid against her breast. He raised it to stroke the softness of her long ebony strands, then the skin of her arm. His fingers ran over the curve of her waist, her hip, her thigh, only to start at the top again.

The candle gutted out some time later. He stilled, staring into the darkness for hours. His brain circled from his mother’s pleas to marry appropriately and quickly, to Edward’s words, to Penelope’s portrayal of financial concerns for anyone without a sizeable estate and her dream of a bakery.

He sorted through ideas. He could choose never to marry and remain with Penelope, but then the estate would go to a distant cousin unprepared to handle the responsibilities. He hated that idea for his tenants’ sake almost as much as his parents did. He could keep Penelope after marriage and deal with his conscience. But even if he could silence that and ignore his parents, she would be miserable. And she preferred to do this only until she had enough to start a bakery. Mayhap he could give her the money now for the bakery, so she would not need a new patron. But that did not guarantee she would not marry, as he must.

The idea of her with another man in any kind of relationship tortured him.

Why is that so galling? And why have I been dragging my feet to ask for Lady Grace’s hand? He stewed. For the same reason, I cannot picture myself with anyone other than Penelope. I have not been able to admit to myself that I love her. Blast it! Damn Peterborough and his ideas. Why could my parents choose love and I cannot? This was hard enough before Edward pointed out the unfairness. Before I admitted the depth of my affection.

No matter how many ideas he dug through, ’twas impossible to make everyone happy. He was bound to satisfy everyone’s demands except his own—and Penelope’s, if she had ever made any on him.

****

Michael’s sleep was fitful, and he left at first light. Determined to refocus on his family obligations, he returned to his parents’ London house rather than his bachelor quarters. Ordering breakfast to his father’s study he had shared these past two years, he sat at the desk to pore over Parliamentary bills. His father prioritized what he wanted Michael to review, ensuring he was up to snuff with the current issues on the floor of the House of Lords.

He checked correspondence from the estates and set a few things aside to summarize with the earl.

After three hours, he stood and stretched, then rang for more tea. He circled the desk and paced the floor to get the blood flowing in his muscles again after sitting for so long. Hearing his father’s voice in the hall, he turned toward the door.

The older man stepped into the room and exclaimed, “Michael! I was glad to hear that you were here when I came down to breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, thank you, Father.” Michael strode over and hugged his father, squeezing his shoulders in affection. “Come. I’ve rung for tea. Let’s go over a few notes I have outlined.”

“Excellent. I wish to discuss the Poor Laws with you again. Did you see the draft of the Workhouse Act currently in the House of Commons?”

“Yes.” Michael’s lips flattened.

The Poor Laws, in effect for the past few decades, allowed each local parish to set the parameters of punishment for a person’s inability to pay their debts. The result was significant inequities across the country and, in many instances, no solution to alleviate poverty. Throwing the old and infirm into workhouses did not produce viable output or offer them a livable wage. Penelope’s comment about mothers with young children exiting their shift in Gressenhall made that clear. No education meant the cycle would continue, in addition to the dangers for the children.

“They are forming a Special Committee,” his father said. “I should like to join, but I am worried I do not have the energy for the extra hours and travel to perform discovery on the issue. Unfortunately, as you are not a member, you cannot join the Committee. Mayhap you could volunteer as an adjunct?”

“I can. But I am unsure whether they will accept that. And I worry they shan’t listen to a non-member of Parliament for the final decision. There may be another way. How well do you know the Earl of Suffolk and the Earl of Peterborough?”

“Young bucks, are they not? About your age? They have been allies in a few of the bills I’ve pushed for votes this Session.”

He nodded. “Yes, you’ve got it. Peterborough is returning from his honeymoon to finish the Session, and Suffolk is his cousin-in-law. Peterborough is of a like mind. I will pay a visit to Suffolk House and see if we can coordinate as a group.”

“Excellent, my dear boy. I am grateful. I only wish I could be the flag-bearer for this important reform needed. Now, do you have time to visit with your mother, or might you have other appointments?”

A second later, his mother’s voice filtered in from the hall. Blast, she’d want to know progress on his betrothal, especially after another outing with Lady Grace with both mothers in attendance. He replayed his father’s question in his head. His father was giving him an out.

He smiled at the earl, who winked. “I must get to my club to see if I can catch other members of our group there and to send round a note to Suffolk.” He finished speaking and stood as his mother rounded the doorway.

“Michael! So lovely to see you, my favorite son!”

“Mother.” He kissed each cheek as she presented them to him, holding her outstretched hands, and replied with his usual, “I am your only son.”

“Yes, you are lucky the bar is low.” She squeezed him and chuckled at their standard greeting, as did he.

“So—” she began.

“I am afraid I was just leaving for my club, Mama. I’d love to catch up, but I have”—he glanced at his father—“appointments. I shall return as soon as I can.”

His mother frowned at her husband, showing her suspicion about who had voiced concern over appointments.

His father contrived to look innocent.

Michael fought a snicker and kissed his mother’s cheeks again. He bowed his excuses and stepped into the hall for his coat, hat, and gloves.

****

After nursing her cracked and probably irrevocably broken heart for a day, Penelope renewed her decision to see more of the demi-monde. As a student, she had learned of this shadow world whose parties mimicked the Ton’s formal balls but with a much shorter set of rules. Gentlemen attended these with their mistresses, sometimes in the same night after a visit to Almack’s with their wives.

She wrote a quick message to Leah and planned to discuss the idea with Michael when she saw him next.

But for a fortnight, Michael sent notes round saying that there was an important project for Parliamentary reform he was working on with his father and some allies, and he was too busy to visit during the day. He sent small gifts as well—gourmet treats that she’d dissect to see if she could emulate, if the urge to cook ever returned, garden plants that saddened her as she’d likely only have them for a month more; and a gorgeous necklace with a daisy pendant, each leaf and the center a small diamond that caught the light and glittered with every movement. But none were a substitute for seeing him.

She helped at the theatre, ensuring she left an hour before the performance began, even if she took costume mending home with her. Most nights that was not necessary. The productions did not have enough funding for extra costumes, so most had to be worn every night in whatever condition they could be brought to before showtime. Then she wandered her house, trying to sew while there was light, scribbling recipe ideas in the hope they would incite her to venture back to the kitchen.

Each night she carried a glass of sherry up to bed after a light meal and read by candlelight, listening for a key in the lock or a tread on the stairs. Sometimes, she’d awake late in the darkness, the candles gutted, to a silent house.

A number of nights Michael slipped in late, she never asked from where. She preferred to assume he had been at his club talking politics.

He would climb to her room, murmuring instructions if she was awake. “Ah good, come undress me.” “What, you are not naked yet?” “Kneel, my lovely girl, I need you.” Gathering her hair in one hand, unfastening his breeches with the other.

He always ensured her pleasure, either before or after his, then he’d hold her until she slept. He was always gone by the time she awoke.

The whole routine discouraged her as much as waking alone did. She needn’t even bother acting happy or sensuous for him. He did not stay long enough, but she did as she was told.

As I am paid to do. Her lips twisted with bitterness each time her mood devolved. Then she chastised herself for thinking that way. Hers was an honest living, and one she had chosen, one that she had been warned not to risk by falling in love with the man paying her.

’Tis one of the better alternatives women have for gainful occupation. Think of Mary’s experience as a much-lower-paid governess. I need to treasure any time I have with him, even as he is pulling away. With that reminder, she shook off her melancholy and moved on with her day.

She daren’t ask where he had been, nor did she question the status of his betrothal. Her Lady Grace sightings made it clear that it was imminent. She trusted his moral choice from their past conversations. He would inform her when it happened, so given the lack of updates, she cherished each additional evening she had with him.

She hoarded her money, her conversation with Lord Cheltenham and the research he had left with her telling her how much she needed for her bakery. She needed at least one more benefactor if Michael married this year. Each scenario had been calculated and recalculated—going back to her stepfather’s, contributing to their household expenses for the winter before finding her next relationship, or finding a new patron before the Season ended.

The smart choice was to expedite her savings and search for a new relationship. To that end, she must see the choices available to her and how she would react when faced with them. Therefore, she had to broach the subject with Michael. Her best chance at a safe, profitable, and happy placement was for him to help arrange it, ideally by introducing her and helping coordinate the transition. She worried about his reaction to this idea, given his concern about decorum for both his parents’ sake and his own as a future earl. Demi-monde parties and masquerade balls were a poorly-kept secret among the Ton.

Had he ever even attended one? He’d never mentioned them, even when they spoke of his wilder years after university.

Well, I shan’t know unless I bloody well ask. But she hadn’t had the chance to ask, given his late-night visits.

He’d avoided any deep conversation these past days after their trip. It could be Parliament work, but she suspected it was more than that.

Nevertheless, school had taught her to make her own opportunity.

****

That night, Michael arrived very late again. When he entered the bedroom, he was surprised to see Penelope up and still dressed. He strode to her. “You are wearing too many clothes, Pen.” He reached for her.

“My lord, can I offer you a whisky? I am quite refreshed tonight and wanted us to spend more time together.” She gestured to her desk, where a small decanter of his favorite Scotch sat.

He growled. “I need you more than whisky, sweeting.” And I can’t bear to think about the end of us.

“Ah, but you may have both.” She smiled. Turning, she twisted out of his grip and poured them each a finger of whisky. Handing it to him, she nudged him in the direction of a small armchair.

He sighed, feeling bone-weary. “Pen, I’m not up for talking, sweet. I have been talking all day, much of the time to no avail. I might be out of words.”

She chuckled.

“I understand. I shan’t demand more of your verbal energy, my lord.” She sent him an impudent look through her upper lashes. “However, I have missed your face. I wish to look at you in the light for a minute. I can speak for the both of us.”

“Hmm, I have a better idea. How about you look at my face and whatever else you wish as you rid your delectable body of some of those clothes?” He threw his jacket on the bed and settled into the chair. His spine melted into the chair back, and he propped one ankle on his other knee, bringing the glass of whisky to his lap with both hands loose around it.

“I suspect I could do that.” Penelope made an exaggerated thinking face, tilting her head with a finger to her chin and gazing at the ceiling.

Approaching him, she placed her hands on the chair arms, leaning over him. Her bosom, lifted by stays, swayed close to his lips but not quite within their reach. When he shifted to raise a hand, she covered his hands with hers, pressing them around his glass. “I will ask you to sit still then, my lord.”

He growled again but subsided, nodding once. He knew he was being grumpy, but the fight over the Workhouse Act had already begun in Commons, involving his father’s cronies. Between that, wooing Miss Lud, and Edward’s words lingering in the back of his mind, he was tired, emotionally as well as physically. Annoyance at being put off gave way to curiosity about Penelope’s actions, and he sat back to watch her.

She arched her back and leaned forward as she rose, so her chest brushed his face before she pulled back to upright. Placing a foot beside his propped leg on the edge of the chair, she bent to slide her slipper off, her décolletage still on display. His gaze obligingly took in the view. She repeated the motion with the other foot then stepped back.

Spinning around, she unlaced the front of her gown, keeping her back to him. She loosened it, allowing it to drop down her arms and sit around her hips, and looked over her shoulder at him.

His muscles locked, his hands gripping his glass with white knuckles. Enthralled, he panted as he watched every step of her seduction.

How does she always know what will excite me the most? And so often with something new, something different. School can’t have taught that. I could spend forever and not have enough of her sensual greetings.

He groaned. Reality had crept into his consciousness. He shoved it back.

Facing away again, she lifted her hands to her hair. She removed one, two, three pins, and it cascaded down her back in a dark satiny curtain. Shaking it out, she grabbed a hank in each hand to tug forward before turning to him. It played peekaboo with her nipples as they poked through the fine muslin and lace of her chemise above her stays.

She reached behind her to unfasten the tapes of her petticoat. Raising her hands, she smoothed them over her breasts to her stomach, then to her sides, to give a little push to her petticoats and dress. They dropped to the floor in a heap around her with a gentle thump.

Stepping over them, she sashayed toward him.