The library door swung open, and as Marcus looked up from his contemplation of the fire burning in the fireplace, Penelope entered.
“Marcus, I was so surprised when Andrews told me you were here. When did you arrive?” she asked.
Marcus rose as his wife crossed the distance that separated them. She took his hand in hers and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You look well,” she said. “I trust you had a good journey?”
“You look well yourself,” he said, squeezing her hand a moment before releasing it. And indeed Penelope looked very fine, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed with excitement. She smiled brightly, but he did not know if the smile was caused by his presence, or simply a remembrance of how she had spent her evening.
“You should have sent word to expect you,” Penelope scolded. “I am sure the house was set at sixes and sevens by your arrival.”
“It was a sudden decision to come,” Marcus explained. “There seemed no point in sending a letter, when I would arrive before it did.”
“You could have sent word when you arrived, and I would have come home at once,” Penelope said, mock-scolding him. “Or better still, you could have joined us. It was only a birthday fete for Mrs. Lawton. I know she would have wished you to join us, if she had known you were in town.”
The servants had been remarkably efficient, once they had gotten over their initial astonishment at his arrival. They had provided him with Penelope’s whereabouts, seeming to think that he would wish to join her, or at the very least, to send a message for her to return home. But he did no such thing. Instead he had dined alone, and then sat in the library, quietly thinking as the hours passed, and his wife remained absent.
Marcus shook his head. “I did not want to be any trouble. And besides, I was somewhat weary from the journey, and thought it best that I not inflict my company upon others.”
“How could you be any trouble? You, sir, are my husband,” Penelope said. “We would have welcomed your presence.”
We would have welcomed your presence, she had said. Not I. She did not speak of herself. And yet she did seem pleased to see him, although that was a small comfort when set against the dark thoughts of these last hours, and the strange restlessness that had prompted his journey.
“Was it a large gathering?” Marcus asked.
“No, it was just the family,” Penelope said. “And myself, of course, although I suppose I count as family as much as anyone.”
It sounded tame enough. And there had been no mention of a Mr. Wolcott, a name that had cropped up all too frequently in Penelope’s letters of late. But still a niggling doubt remained. It was nearly midnight after all, surely a late hour from which to be returning from a small family gathering.
Unless, of course, she had been somewhere else. With someone else.
“Come now. I am fatigued and you must be as well. It is time we sought our beds,” Penelope said.
He followed as she led the way up the stairs to the second floor. She paused at the door to his bedchamber.
“I am not that fatigued,” he said.
She smiled and blushed. “I was hoping you would say that,” she replied.
And as he led her into her bedchamber, he forced himself to set aside all of his self-doubts and petty fears, and gave himself over to the task of pleasing his wife, and allowing her to pleasure him in return.
The next morning over breakfast, Penelope again asked Marcus what had prompted his sudden journey to Edinburgh. Any hopes that he had missed her company were swiftly dashed when Marcus related that he had grown impatient with trying to sort out the late duke’s affairs by correspondence. Instead he had decided to come to Edinburgh, where he could meet with the various solicitors and agents concerned, and settle matters himself. He planned to stay a fortnight, no more, and then return to Greenfields for the shooting season.
Whatever his reasons for coming, Penelope was pleased that he had come. Most of his days were spent tied up with his various advisors, so Penelope rearranged her schedule so she would be able to spend the evenings with Marcus. As word of his presence spread, invitations began to pour in. She refused most of them, but did manage to coax Marcus into attending the theater, and one afternoon he escorted her to a painting exhibition held at Hobson’s Academy.
She had been pleased when he agreed to accompany her. She had given careful thought to this outing, searching for an activity that she hoped he would enjoy. The academy was showing an exhibition of landscapes and country scenes, which Robert Lawton had highly recommended.
But at first it seemed she had chosen unwisely. In the first gallery there were scenes of the hunt, and of gentlemen posed next to their hunters and dogs. She had thought Marcus would find these pleasing, but instead the pictures elicited only his scorn.
“Do you see that? The dog there stands half the size of the horse. No dog that size could run with the pack, or hope to keep up with the riders. It is ridiculous.”
Penelope eyed the painting. True, the dog did seem a trifle large.
“I think the artist was trying to convey the beast’s greatness of spirit by depicting him as larger than life,” she observed.
“Hmph,” Marcus said. “Greatness of spirit, my foot. More like the painter had no idea of what he was doing in the first place. And look at this other one he did. The horse’s head is all wrong, and those legs are entirely out of proportion. It’s a disgrace, it is. They shouldn’t allow such work to hang in the halls.” Marcus’s voice was raised in outrage.
She could see heads turning to stare at them.
“Not everyone shares your expertise,” Penelope said diplomatically. “Come now, surely there are other artists whose work will be more to your liking.”
She tugged on his arm, and after a moment he followed.
The next room was no better, for it held numerous scenes of country life done in the style of Gainsborough. Even Penelope had to agree that the scenes were idealized beyond all recognition. The country folk were too rosy-cheeked, and too improbably happy at their labors, and golden sunshine streamed down from cloudless skies.
As they entered the third room, she was ready to concede defeat. Neither she nor Marcus were enjoying themselves, so there was no reason to stay.
This room was less crowded than the others, allowing a clear view of the paintings that filled each wall from floor to ceiling. A giant landscape dominated the whole of one wall, easily measuring a dozen feet across.
Marcus let go of her hand and crossed the room to stare in wonder at the canvas. She followed close behind, noticing her husband’s rapt expression.
This canvas showed a broad river with high bluffs on either side, and dark green woods that stretched to the very limits of the canvas. To the west, the sun was slowly sinking into the woods. There was an overall sense of immensity and a lonely grandeur.
Penelope consulted her guide. This salon was dedicated to paintings from the New World, and the central work was a painting of the Hudson River and the forests of New York.
“Is this not marvelous?” Marcus asked.
“Yes,” Penelope said. “It is called ‘Sunset over the Hudson.’ Painted by Mr. David Emerson during his travels in the New World.”
Marcus nodded, his gaze still transfixed. “They say that in the New World there are forests that stretch for hundreds of miles, where no white man has ever set foot.”
She heard the longing in his voice, and remembered her own youthful dreams of far-off places. Forests in England were tame things, managed by great landowners or held in trust for the Crown. There were no wild beasts to be feared, no native civilizations to be encountered, no great wonders waiting for someone to discover them.
“And would you like to journey there someday and see these sights with your own eyes?” she asked.
Marcus shook his head. “As a boy I thought of nothing else,” he confessed. “But now I have put such foolish fancies behind.”
It was a shame. “Surely, as a duke, you are entitled to do as you please. Even venture to the New World, if such is your desire.”
Marcus turned toward her. “And would my intrepid duchess accompany me in my madness?”
He gave a smile of such warmth that she felt her bones turn to jelly. At that moment she would have promised him anything.
“Of course,” she said. “I could hardly leave you alone. Who knows what mischief you would get into?”
“I shall remember your promise,” he said.
The rest of the afternoon passed quite pleasantly, and they dined quietly at home, as had become their custom. Much to her surprise she found she was quite content with this domesticity. The constant round of social engagements she had been a part of before his arrival had begun to pall, and she was grateful for the respite.
And she was guiltily relieved to no longer require Mr. Wolcott’s escort for social functions. Although at first he had seemed content with their friendship, in recent days he had begun to hint that he wished for a more intimate relationship between them. Not that he had said so openly; it was not that simple. Instead it was a matter of how he looked at her, hand clasps that lasted longer than appropriate, the way he stood just a trifle too close. It made her uncomfortable, but as yet he had committed no dishonor.
It had been a mistake to encourage his friendship, and to seek out his company so openly. But his attentions had been a balm for her wounded pride. Even when her friends pointed out the dangers of such a relationship, their opposition had only served to strengthen her resolve to prove that a platonic friendship was indeed possible.
Perhaps it was indeed possible on her part, but it was clear Mr. Wolcott still held warmer feelings for her. She realized that she had been unfair to him. In thinking only of herself, she had unwittingly encouraged him in his devotion to her. Now she would have to find a way to break off their connection. It would be better for both of them if she set him free to find a woman who could return his love in full measure.
Yet, she could not break off the connection abruptly, for doing so, now that Marcus had arrived in Edinburgh, might very well set off the gossip that she wished to avoid. With this thought in mind, she added Mr. Wolcott’s name to the guest list of the dinner party she had planned. It was to be a small gathering, barely two dozen in all. But it would be an opportunity to repay the hospitality she had received in these last weeks, as well as a chance for Marcus to become familiar with her new acquaintances. And including Mr. Wolcott on the guest list should send a clear message to everyone that there was nothing between them but friendship. Surely no one would imagine that she could be so brazen as to invite her lover to dine with her husband.
The day of the dinner party arrived, and things began to go wrong from the moment she woke up feeling headachy and slightly queasy. Penelope dined on weak tea and toast in her room, and after applying a cold compress to her face, eventually managed to dress and make her way downstairs to deal with the hundred and one last-minute details.
The first to demand her attention was the chef, who complained that the partridges were unfit for serving. She inspected them briefly, clasping a handkerchief over her face as the smell reawakened her nausea, and backed hastily out of the pantry. She agreed that game hens could be substituted instead, and the cook’s assistant was sent to the market to procure them.
After speaking with the housekeeper, she began to copy out the menus, only to discover that Mrs. Shields had sent word that she was too ill to attend. This made the party unbalanced, as Mrs. Shields had been invited to partner Mr. Wolcott. After much frantic thinking Penelope sent a message to Miss Boyle, who was kindhearted enough to agree to the last-minute invitation.
By the time the guests began arriving, Penelope was exhausted. Even Marcus’s compliments on her appearance did little to restore her spirits. She could not understand why she was so tired. She had hosted parties many times before, and far larger gatherings. Perhaps it was simply that this was the first time she had held such a gathering in the new town house. Or perhaps it was simply that she wanted every detail of this evening to be perfect, even if she herself found little pleasure in the event.
The dinner was a success, or at least her guests seemed to think so. The conversation was lively, and though she could not hear Marcus’s conversation from her end of the table, he seemed to be holding his own as he spoke with Lord Whilton and Roger Lawton. Lord Whilton was a sportsman of some note, and he and Marcus seemed to be kindred spirits.
After dinner, Penelope led the ladies to the drawing room, where they sipped tea and gossiped until joined by the gentlemen. As often happens at such gatherings, the guests broke into small groups. A few of the gentlemen stood with Marcus, discussing the prospects for the shooting season, while others clustered discussing politics or literature, and Miss Boyle related a humorous tale of her encounter in the park with the Earl of Ellicott, whom she had mistaken for her cousin.
Penelope circulated among her guests, discreetly checking on the refreshments, and offering her opinion when asked. But she did not allow herself to be drawn into any one conversation. Instead, she suppressed a yawn, and wondered somewhat guiltily if it was beyond all measure of politeness to chivvy her guests to leave at this early hour.
A footman approached and caught her eye. “Mr. Campbell would like to speak with you,” he said.
Penelope made her excuses and left the drawing room. She found Mr. Campbell emerging from the door that led down to the cellars.
“Your Grace, John informed me that the port was running low, so I took it upon myself to bring up two more bottles to be decanted,” Mr. Campbell said, handing the bottles over to the waiting footman. “Will you be wanting more champagne poured as well?”
“No,” Penelope said after a moment’s thought. “I doubt we will drink half of what has been opened. The ladies seem to prefer the chilled Madeira this evening.”
And perhaps if they ran out of champagne, the guests would be encouraged to leave soon, and Penelope could seek out her own bed. It was an unworthy thought, but her earlier headache had returned in full force.
“Very well, Your Grace,” the butler replied.
As Penelope made her way back down the hall, she found Mr. Wolcott standing outside the door to the drawing room.
“Sir?” she asked, wondering at his presence.
“I hoped I might have a word with you,” Mr. Wolcott said. “In private.”
Penelope hesitated. She was tired, her head ached, and if she was absent for much longer her guests would begin to wonder.
“Please,” he entreated, reaching for her hand.
She pulled her hand back before he could clasp it.
“As you wish. I can spare a moment,” she said.
She led him to the small parlor that she had taken for her own. Mr. Wolcott closed the door behind them, a breach of propriety. She thought about asking him to reopen it, and then realized that perhaps it was best that there be no witnesses to this conversation.
“Have I done something to offend you?” Mr. Wolcott asked.
“No,” Penelope said.
“Then why this sudden coldness? You have scarcely spoken to me this past fortnight,” Mr. Wolcott said. “Please, tell me what I have done wrong and I will mend my ways.”
“I have been otherwise occupied since my husband journeyed to Edinburgh,” Penelope said.
Mr. Wolcott nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I hear he is soon to depart. May I hope for your companionship once he has returned to his muddy fields and yapping dogs?”
“Marcus’s stay is undetermined,” Penelope said. It was only a small prevarication. True, Marcus had said he only intended to stay a fortnight, but it had been that long already, and he showed no signs of leaving.
“But surely you can not prefer his company to mine? He is scarcely civilized, for all his newly acquired rank and wealth. I doubt he’s read a dozen books in his entire life. What on earth do you find in common with him?”
Penelope grew angry. How dare he disparage Marcus in this way? “My husband is a true gentleman. Just because he sees no need to prattle does not reflect upon his intelligence or his character. Indeed, I find I prefer his company above all others,” she said, realizing even as she said it that it was the truth. “In fact it is our differences that strengthen our bond.”
“I apologize if I misspoke,” Mr. Wolcott said, seemingly realizing that he had erred. “I did not mean to insult the duke. I am certain that in his own way he is a man of worth. It was simply my disappointment speaking. In these past weeks I had allowed myself to hope—”
“That is my fault,” Penelope interrupted. She had a strong suspicion as to what Mr. Wolcott had hoped for, but did not wish to hear the words said aloud. “I have been unfair to you, taking advantage of your good nature when there can be nothing but civilized friendship between us. In fact I believe it for the best that we not see each other in the future, to avoid any awkwardness.”
There. She had said it. She had expected to feel sorrow, but instead she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was hard to realize that she had once thought herself passionately in love with this man. Now all she felt was a distant affection, tinged with regret.
“And there is no chance I can change your mind?”
“None,” she said firmly.
Mr. Wolcott eyed her assessingly. “I believe you,” he said. And then he smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. “Which is unfortunate for you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Wolcott advanced toward her, and Penelope retreated until she found her back literally against the wall.
“Do you know how much blunt it takes to live as a gentleman? To support myself as I deserve? Far more than the measly allowance my father sends me, and a hundred times more than I will ever make from that pathetic drivel I pass off as poetry.”
His blue eyes were cold, and his face had hardened. Penelope realized for the first time that she was seeing the true man behind the civilized mask that he showed the rest of the world. She was frightened, although as yet he had made no move to touch her.
If he did, she would have to call for help, regardless of the consequences to her reputation. She closed her eyes in mortification. How could she have been so foolish as to agree to this private meeting? Were she to be discovered, the scandal would undo all the hard work she had done to reclaim her good name. A duchess found privately entertaining one of her male guests. Her reputation would be ruined, and the blame would be hers for having allowed herself to be placed in this situation.
“I do not understand you,” Penelope said.
“Did you never guess why I left Edinburgh? Your father paid me quite handsomely to do so,” Mr. Wolcott said. “He would have done anything to protect his precious daughter.”
Penelope swallowed, tasting bile.
“Other papas in London were equally protective of their daughters,” Mr. Wolcott said, his eyes lost in some private meditation. “Of course, once my reputation was known, it was time to take my earnings and leave the country. On the Continent one can live quite well on a modest sum. I did travel, as I had said. But eventually the money ran low, and I returned to England. Imagine my surprise when I found out that you had just become a wealthy duchess. I knew my fortune was made.”
“You thought I would pay you off?”
Mr. Wolcott shrugged. “I hoped you would agree to be my patroness. By all accounts your husband was a dull stick, and I thought you would be pleased to take a lover who shared your interests. And once I had made you mine, it would be a simple matter to convince you to share your wealth. To support my muse, as it were. How could I know that you would actually be loyal to that clod?”
Penelope raised her hand to slap him, but he caught it tightly within his fist.
“Temper, temper,” he said. “Think well before you do something you will regret. Would you like me to call out and summon the servants?”
“No,” Penelope said swiftly. There was no need for anyone else to witness her humiliation.
“I thought not,” he said, with an unpleasant smirk. “I will make this simple for you. Let history repeat itself. You will give me five thousand pounds, and I will disappear from Scotland, and trouble you no more.”
“I will do no such thing,” Penelope said.
“I advise you not to be foolish,” Mr. Wolcott said. “If you do not cooperate, I will make sure all of Edinburgh hears that we have been lovers. And then you will find out just how tolerant your husband is.”
“You are despicable,” Penelope said.
Mr. Wolcott shook his head. “Merely practical. The choice is yours. I will expect your answer tomorrow. You have my direction.”
With that he released her hand and stepped back. He gave an ironic bow and then left.
Penelope sank down in a chair, her nerves overcome by that confrontation. She felt like such a fool. How could she ever have been taken in by such a man? Many had tried to warn her, but she had been too blind to see.
She was ashamed that she had fallen for his wiles not once but twice. And this time she was not a girl of sixteen, but a married woman of one-and-twenty. She should have known better. If only her father had told her of Mr. Wolcott’s perfidy, he would never have had had a chance to inveigle himself into her life again. But it was not really her father’s fault. He had been trying to protect her. Perhaps he would have told her when she was older, but he had died without ever having told her what he had done. And so she had spent five years cherishing the illusion of her one great love, only to now discover that it had been just that. An illusion. Mr. Wolcott had never loved her. He had never loved anyone but himself.
And she? She had realized some days ago that she was not in love with Mr. Wolcott. Indeed his constant attentions and flatteries had begun to feel oppressive and cloying. Not to mention that his behavior of late had made her uncomfortable. While he had continued to behave with propriety, there was something in his glances, in his sighs, in the way he always seemed to be standing so close that she could hardly breathe.
In fact, the more she grew to know Mr. Wolcott, the more she realized that she had never really known him at all. Her feelings for him were nothing but the echo of the infatuation that a young woman had felt toward the first man who had paid her court. Her vanity, wounded by Marcus’s desertion to the countryside, had taken great pleasure in having such a devoted follower. Here was a man who had loved her, a man who had gone into exile simply because he could not have her. What more proof could she need that here was the romantic hero that she had long desired?
But it had all been a delusion. She had been in love with the idea of being in love. Mr. Wolcott was simply the object she had fixed upon, projecting all her hopes and fancies upon him.
If not for Marcus, she might never have known what it was to love a flesh-and-blood man, rather than a dream image she had created in her mind. Only then had she been able to see how shallow her feelings for Mr. Wolcott were.
But even then, knowing that she did not love Mr. Wolcott, she had still taken pity on him, believing that he was in love with her. She had worried over how he would take the news that they could not be friends. Never could she have imagined his perfidy.
Now she had to face the fact that she had been a fool. By encouraging Mr. Wolcott, she had given the gossips new fuel for scandal. And since she had no intention of giving in to Mr. Wolcott’s demands, she would have to face the consequences. She no longer doubted that Mr. Wolcott would do exactly as he promised, and try to blacken her name.
Penelope gave a mirthless laugh. To think that she had once considered herself a fine judge of character. And yet she had completely misjudged both her brother and Mr. Wolcott.
She hoped that she was better at reading Marcus’s character. If there was any hope for them to build a true marriage, she would have to go to him, and tell him everything. And then hope that he could find it in his heart to forgive her.