Dukes By the Dozen

Penelope blinked against the dim glow of the firelight and immediately started putting her clothing to rights. “Ruined is ruined.”

“I’m going to have to disagree, Pease Porridge.” He reached for her, stilling her hands by tucking her up against his chest. “Fact is, you are missing some telling attributes of a ruined woman.”

Her lovely heart-shaped face flamed with fresh color. “Am I? Shows what you know about ruination.”

“Yes, it does,” he affirmed gently. “Forgive my crude curiosity, but just how much did my brother importune you?”

She drew in a long breath. “Trust you to ask the dire direct questions, Beech.”

“My dear Pease Porridge, I don’t ask to censure. Far from it.”

She gave him no ready answer, but he was a man who had learned the virtues of quiet patience. He let the reassuring weight of the silence settle upon her for a long moment before he mused, “You see, I begin to think the term—ruined—is applied far too loosely to any young lady who might step her toe out of line and displease others who think to control her fate.”

“Beech, don’t make me out to be a saint. I am no innocent miss.”

“No, how could you be?” he agreed philosophically. “Anyone our age who could live in this world and remain a complete innocent would be either remarkably stupid, or remarkably callous. You strike me as neither of those things.”

“Beech.” Her voice was nothing but a whispered plea—for quiet or continuation, he could not tell.

So, he stayed his course. “I am a man of experience and observation, Pease Porridge—a man of facts. And I should very much like to be apprised of the true facts of the situation, which only you possess.” He drew his fingers across her temples, as if he could see the truth writ large there. “Now, I collect you’ve kissed before, as you are—if I may compliment you—an extraordinarily enthusiastic kisser. But that may be my own enjoyment clouding my judgment of experience.”

“You were rather enthusiastic yourself,” she countered.

“I am delighted you think so.” He began to brush his fingers absently along the sweet sweep of her jaw—an intimate, soothing gesture. “And we shall return to that pleasing activity just as soon as you satisfy my curiosity. And my sense of justice.”

“Justice?” Her tone edged back toward bleak. “In the court of social judgment, justice is hard to come by. Rumor is evidence, verdicts are swift, and appeals are nonexistent.”

“Too damn true.” He hated that she was clearly bearing the cost of his late brother’s sins. “The world is an astonishingly dangerous and deceptive place, isn’t it, Pease Porridge? Full of traps and pitfalls for the unwary. You seem properly wary, and yet…” He shook his head, because he could not quite puzzle it out. “I must ask, Penelope, if you know how my brother died?”

“He was shot to death in Grosvenor Square,” she answered carefully.

“And do you know,” he pressed, “by whom?”

“Yes.” She let out a long sigh before she said, gently, “He was shot by his married lover, poor Viscountess Guilford, for the unforgivable sin of infecting her with the pox.”

“Devil take his soul.” Marcus heaved out his own sigh. “I feared as much, though I assumed he was shot by somebody’s husband. Although I had not seen Caius in ten years, I did know he was a libertine.” Still, Marcus had some sympathy for his unapologetic ruiner of a brother—bleeding to death in Grosvenor Square was a messy, merciless way to die. “Poor bastard.”

“Yes,” Penelope agreed.

The uneasiness he did not want to believe was jealousy weighed on his chest like a five-pound shot. But she had just called him a hero, so he had to act like one, and face his fears. “What I still don’t understand is why you went to him? And why then, you later refused him? Please tell me you did not know that—that he had the pox—when you went to him. Please.”

“I went to him,” she said carefully, “perhaps because I recognized another wayward soul. But I refused him—or more correctly, my father—because Caius warned me. He told me of his disease himself. I think perhaps he was already dying.”

Marcus was sure he could not have heard her aright. “My brother, Caius Beecham, eighth Duke of Warwick, known libertine and despoiler of any number of women—and who knows what else—acted the gentleman and warned you off?”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Her bittersweet smile did not reach her eyes. “And incredibly sad.” She took a deeper breath and turned to face him. “It was meant to be a very great secret—the truth of his death—so, of course, all of society now knows that Caius Beecham, Duke of Warwick, had the clap.” She did not shy from the vulgar truth. “And now they are also sure that I must have it, too, because I was shut away in a room alone with him for some time. No matter that he never actually kissed me.”

Something sharp and shameful eased, and then tied itself into a new knot in his chest. “Devil send himself to hell,” Marcus swore. “My dear Pease Porridge, you astonish me.”