The house at Charlotte Square was all any woman could have wished for. Mr. McGregor had negotiated a two-year lease, with an option for the duke to purchase the property outright at any time during the lease. And indeed she could see no reason why he would not wish to purchase the property. The address was respectable, the exterior of the house was pleasing to the eye, while inside the rooms were elegant and well proportioned. And owing to its newness, it held every modern convenience.
To Penelope’s surprise, among the newly hired servants she found a familiar face. Mrs. Boylston, who had been housekeeper for her brother, and her parents before then, had chosen to follow her mistress into her new home. Under her keen eye the servants had polished and scrubbed every inch of her new residence. The presence of the housekeeper, along with her own maid, Jenna, provided a welcome note of familiarity in these strange surroundings.
The first few days after their return passed in a blur, as friends and acquaintances came to call, to pay their respects to the newly married couple. There were a few ill-bred comments from gossip-mongers, but in the weeks since their marriage other scandals had taken hold of the public’s fancy, and Penelope felt confident that in time the novelty of her marriage would wear off, and she would be simply another accepted member of Edinburgh society.
Marcus was often busy with his affairs or closeted with the solicitor McGregor, but on most afternoons he did try to join her for tea, and she took a particular pleasure in introducing him to her friends. She would have liked to show him the city, but that was not possible. He stayed in Edinburgh with her for only a week before leaving to return to his home at Greenfields. He did not ask her to join him, and Penelope tried not to be too disappointed at the omission. At least he had promised to return to Edinburgh in the fall, once the hunting season was over. And it was not as if they were expected to live in each other’s pockets. Such marriages existed only between the pages of romantic novels. Theirs was a civilized arrangement, where each party was free to pursue his or her own interests.
The day after his departure, Penelope was on her way to a luncheon when a footman came with the message that her brother had arrived. She instructed the footman to put her brother in the blue parlor, and then completed her toilette.
It was a quarter hour later when she entered the parlor to find her brother uneasily pacing to and fro.
“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” James said. He advanced toward her, as if to kiss her cheek, but she turned aside, offering him her hand instead.
“I am afraid I can only spare you a few minutes,” Penelope said, taking a seat on the small sofa. “Lady Whilton is expecting me, and I would not want to make the countess wait.”
It was no more than the truth, but it was also a subtle reminder that as Lady Torringford, Penelope now moved in a different level of society than she had as the mere Miss Hastings. Not that she had cut her old acquaintances, but rather that her social circle had expanded.
She eyed her brother critically. He seemed even stouter than she remembered, and his hair thinner. And his appearance, combined with his strict formal manners, made him seem far older than he was. Older than Marcus, though she knew for certain that James was five years Marcus’s junior.
A most unprepossessing figure of a man, really, and she wondered what Miss Carstairs saw in him.
“I will not keep you,” James said. “I merely came to offer my congratulations on your marriage. I can see for myself that this marriage agrees with you.”
“Your consideration does you credit,” Penelope said. James nodded, completely blind to the irony of her comments, and she wondered yet again how it was that she and her brother could be so completely unlike.
“And the duke your husband, he is well?”
“Marcus is very well indeed. He is at Greenfields presently, but I will convey your regards when I write to him.”
She wondered what was behind this sudden interest in her welfare. Could it be that James felt guilt for his part in forcing her into this marriage? Not that she regretted it; indeed in many ways this was a blessing. But she saw no reason to share this knowledge with James. His callous disregard for her feelings still rankled her. Let him squirm with guilt. It was no more than he deserved.
Or was it that he now saw some advantage to himself in renewing their relationship? This was far more likely, particularly since it was now clear that society was prepared to accept its newest duchess, something which must gall both her brother and his fiancée. No doubt the social-climbing Miss Carstairs would very much like to move in the circles that were now open to Penelope.
“I see you are to be married yourself. I am certain Miss Amelia Carstairs will make an amiable bride,” Penelope said.
James flushed. “I had meant to write you myself, but—”
“But I read the announcement in the newspaper instead,” Penelope said sharply. “No matter. It is not as if we are close.”
And yet I am the only family you have left, a part of her wanted to scream. While another part wondered at how she could have been so blind to her brother’s innate selfishness. She had completely misjudged his character.
“I would hope we could put this unpleasantness behind us, and make a fresh start. I know Miss Carstairs values your acquaintance and looks forward to knowing you as a sister.”
Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she searched her brother’s face, but there was no sign of mockery. Apparently he was sincere in his belief that Miss Carstairs now desired Penelope’s friendship, after all that had passed between them.
Perhaps she was not the only one who was blind to the flaws in those she loved. Or perhaps he was indeed telling the truth. Given time to reflect, no doubt even a simpleton such as Miss Carstairs would have realized the value in having a duchess as a sister-in-law.
“Miss Carstairs will find that my regard for her remains unchanged,” Penelope said. Let James make of that as he would. She was not so lost to civility that she would insult her brother’s fiancée to his face.
She rose to her feet, pulling on her gloves. “And now I must take my leave. Kindly give my regards to Miss Carstairs,” Penelope said.
“I will,” James replied.
The next day Penelope called upon the Lawtons. She could not help contrasting the warmth of their greetings with the stiff and awkward reunion with her brother. Mrs. Lawton joined Harriet and Penelope for luncheon, and then tactfully left the two young women alone, so they could converse privately.
“I can not tell you how much I missed the chance to have a comfortable coze. So much has happened in these past weeks, and there was no one I could speak with,” Penelope said.
“I have missed you as well, although I had the advantage of Anne and Miss Gray, and indeed, our entire set to keep me occupied, while you were rusticating in the country,” Harriet Lawton replied. “Tell me, was it as dull as I feared?”
“It was not dull, precisely,” Penelope said. “That is for the most part the people were kind, if a trifle unsophisticated. And Marcus was most attentive.”
“Indeed?” Harriet Lawton arched one delicate eyebrow. “I found him rather stiff in our meeting, although I will admit the circumstances were hardly ideal. I take it he improves upon acquaintance?”
Penelope hesitated, wondering what she could say. How could she explain her attraction to her husband, this stranger who had become her friend. They had few common interests, and yet, somehow, she had grown fond of him, and of his company.
“Marcus is a true gentleman. Kind, courteous, and quite intelligent, although our interests diverge,” Penelope said. “I think we will find ourselves good friends, which is the best basis for a happy marriage.”
“You sound as if you have reconciled yourself to this.”
“I know we promised each other we would only marry for love,” Penelope said, answering the unspoken criticism. “And indeed, if things had been different, I would most likely have remained a spinster. But as things are, I could have done far worse for a husband than Marcus Heywood. Far worse. He is not the man I would have chosen for myself, but perhaps that is part of his appeal.”
Indeed, her own preference had been for pale and narrow-shouldered gentlemen of a poetic temperament. She could not have imagined herself with a tanned sportsman whose powerful physique made her feel so very feminine. And remembering what Marcus could do with his body—
“Penelope! You are blushing,” Harriet Lawton cried. “You have fallen in love with him.”
“No,” Penelope said, shaking her head, but she could not meet her friend’s eyes. “How could I?”
“But you are happy, are you not? Even though your husband has chosen to return to the country?”
“I am content,” Penelope said. And it was true, although a part of her missed Marcus’s presence and longed for the day when he would return.
“I am pleased to hear that,” Harriet replied. “For there is one other bit of news I must share with you. At last week’s poetry society meeting we had an unexpected guest. An old acquaintance has returned to Edinburgh.”
“And this acquaintance is?”
“Mr. Wolcott.”
Her heart gave an unexpected jump. Stephen? Stephen had returned? But why now? There had been no word of him for nearly five years and now he came out of the blue. But where had he been all this time? Was he still unmarried?
Penelope took a sip of her tea to cover her confusion. Once she had longed for this day, but now it was too late. Two months too late, to be precise. It did not matter if Stephen Wolcott was married or if he remained a single gentleman. What mattered was that she was a married woman. A duchess no less. And she owed it to herself and to Marcus to behave herself with all propriety. No matter what feelings Stephen’s return stirred up within her.
“It will be pleasant to renew our acquaintance,” Penelope said, aware that the silence had stretched on too long. “Did Mr. Wolcott mention where he has been?”
“I believe he has been traveling abroad.”
“Then perhaps his journeys will have inspired some great works. I look forward to hearing his poetry,” Penelope said.
“Is his poetry all that you missed? You were intimate friends, at one time.”
“That was years ago, and I am certain that Mr. Wolcott has forgotten all about that,” Penelope said. He must have, or else why would he have left her so abruptly, without once sending word? She had been reduced to scanning the new arrivals at the bookstore and circulating library, looking for his poetry, for some sign that he was still alive. But there had been nothing, and for a long time she had wondered if he had met with an untimely death, perhaps a victim of illness or accident.
“You do not need to pretend with me. I know you still have feelings for him,” Harriet said. “That is why I wanted to warn you.”
“I thank you for your consideration, but I assure you there is no need for worry,” Penelope said. “We will meet as old friends, nothing more.”
Harriet eyed her suspiciously, but seemed content to let the matter rest. For now. “So, tell me, what do you think of your brother’s coming marriage?”
“I was surprised to read the announcement in the Gazette,” Penelope said, gratefully accepting the change of subject. “But I believe they are well suited for each other. James called upon me yesterday, reminding me of his brotherly regard. And letting me know how much Miss Carstairs desired my friendship.”
“A friend such as her you do not need.”
Penelope laughed. “It is not my friendship that she wants, but rather the pleasure of being able to display a duchess to her friends and acquaintances that she wishes for. Still there is no need to worry. I can deal with her pretensions.”
“And Mr. Wolcott? Can you deal with his expectations as well?”
“Of course,” Penelope said. And yet even as she said the words, she wondered if they were true.