Dukes By the Dozen

“Do I?” She tried to muster a shrug. “It was none of my doing, I assure you. I did throw myself at Caius, if you must know, Beech, and he put me off. He saved my life.”

He would not excuse Caius of all responsibility. “But ruined it anyway, by making you a pariah by not speaking up for you,” he insisted.

“Beech. You really are the kindest man.” In the low firelight, her eyes looked dark and liquid and sad. “Did it never occur to you that I might have known what I was doing—or thought I knew what I was doing—when I went into a closed room with your brother? That I might have had caddish Caius Beecham, and the Dukedom of Warwick, in my sights?”

CHAPTER 12

PENELOPE FELT him draw away from her.

“No,” he answered. And then, “Why?”

His voice was packed tight with hurt, but no accusation, and so she gave him the truth.

“Because I deserved no better. I told you I was no saint, Beech. I liked to dance. I liked to flirt. I loved to kiss. And I got caught. More than once, or even twice.” Now that their passion had cooled, she curled herself into a ball against the chilling draft. “My father told me no decent man would have me, so I decided upon a cad—a cad who might take me as I was. Your brother might have been many things—most of them bad—but he was no hypocrite.”

Beech shook his head as if he didn’t want to believe her. “If that was so, then why didn’t you marry the blighter when he proposed?”

“Because Caius didn’t propose.” Penelope closed her eyes, as if that might help her sort out the truth from the convenient lies. “But there was my father saying it had all been arranged, with your mama’s blessing. That I had no choice, and neither did Caius. But of course, I had a choice, awful as they tried to make it. And I chose to show Caius the same mercy he had shown me: I refused. I insisted nothing had happened, though nobody believed me.”

Beech stared at her as if he were finally seeing her as she was and not as he wished her to be. “How extraordinary.”

“Hardly.” Her own opinion was that she had been rather mercenary—both in going to Caius, and in refusing the proposal. “I had no want to end up dead of the pox.”

“Who would? Very prudent of you,” he agreed on a deep exhalation.

“I’m not prudent,” she insisted. “I’m damaged goods, as they say, Beech. I am ruined—nothing will take that stain away.” Especially not if she eloped with his brother. People would say she had bamboozled poor Beech into marrying her.

He seemed to finally hear the irredeemable truth about her. “Devil take me.” He drew away.

“Yes. So, you may put away your need for justice, and ask yourself if you still think we should marry now that you know all the sordid details that only I possess. If you truly want a ruined wife.”

He took another deep breath. “What I ought to ask myself is if I want you to wife.”

“Yes.” Straight to the dark heart of the matter. “You deserve better.”

He leaned closer, as if he were trying to see her more clearly in the shadowed bed. But it was she who saw him more clearly—saw the light of something more ferocious than justice lighting his eyes. “Now, don’t make me out to be a saint, my dear Pease Porridge. I have my own selfish needs as well.”

For a wonderful moment she thought he was speaking of attraction, of that marvelously giddy feeling of glad rightness she felt when she had been in his arms. But then he touched his empty sleeve again, in that involuntary, instinctive gesture of reminder.

And she understood. The truth stung like a slap, hard and unforgiving. “Oh, Beech. That’s what you think, isn’t it—that you’re the damaged goods? That you’re so altered, that only someone like me—who has no other choice—would ever agree to have you.”

The yawning gulf of silence that stretched out between them like a chasm was his answer.

“Oh, Beech.” Penelope had never felt more defeated. She ached for him—and for herself. “A fine pair of idiots we are.”

His laugh was tinged with suppressed pain. “And that, Pease Porridge, is my solace and my hope—that we are indeed a fine pair.” He shoved his hand through his disheveled hair, as if he were quite literally getting a hold of himself. “I have asked myself that question you posed, and I find that I do want you, and only you, for a wife. No matter your disadvantages or my disabilities. No matter what society, or my mother, or your father may say. Only you will do. Of this I am sure—I will have you or no other. But only if you will have me.”

Hope was a persistent flame that sparked hot and hungry. “Do you really mean it, Beech?”

“I always mean what I say, Penelope.” He met her eye squarely, no trace of mockery in their grey-green depths. No evasion. “Always.”

“Beech.” A month ago, she would have leapt at the chance to secure such a man. But the long weeks of her humiliation had taught her not to be so hasty or reckless. And he was such a man—an honest man whom she liked very much. Almost too much.

“I am tempted, Beech. Beyond thought, beyond reason. If I were to consult only my feelings—”