Dukes By the Dozen

Enough to tell her that her lovely idyll with Beech was at an end. Enough to remind her that she deserved no better. More than enough to send her snatching up her clothes and running for home.

Penelope had the small presence of mind to wrap herself in the fur rug from the carriage as a ward against the frigid chill of the morning, but she didn’t have far to walk—her father’s carriage was already waiting in the snow-swept courtyard.

Penelope did not question how the empty coach came to be there, but simply climbed aboard, let her tears fall hot down her cold cheeks, and let them take her where they would—which turned out to be Hayholm Mote, a lovely moated medieval house tucked away in the countryside some ways up the Avon, where the great aunt she had never before met, Lady Sarah Pease, lived in quiet comfort with her cats.

“Poor lamb, you look like you’ve had a time of it,” Lady Sarah welcomed her with glad smiles and warm understanding. “Get this cup of tea into you, then tell your Aunt Sarah what happened, love.”

Her compassion was so unexpected that Penelope had no reserve. “I’ve made a proper mess of things, my lady. I’m sure my father—”

“Oh, fathers!” The lady waved her lace at the general notion of fathers. “What do they know of daughters’ love.” She patted the chair beside her. “Now, I do know bare outlines of your scandal—though I admire your ambition, and your taste. Caius Beecham, no less!” She patted Penelope’s hand in approval. “His death was unexpected, I suppose, but by the look of your poor face, I can’t help but think that you must have loved that lovely bastard very much to still be so brokenhearted.”

“No, ma’am.” Penelope would have laughed if she had not been so full of tears. “I was not in love with the late duke.”

“Pish tosh.” Aunt Sarah made a decidedly unladylike sound of disagreement. “I know a girl in love when I see one.”

Penelope felt her face flame. But why should she be ashamed—loving Beech had been everything right and good, even if it was ruinous. “I am in love,” she admitted. “Or feel I am—but it feels terrible. I seem to have jumped from the cold frying pan into the burning fire. And got myself properly roasted as a result.”

“Have you?” Aunt Sarah was all avid interest. “Tell me all.”

Penelope almost didn’t know where to begin. “I didn’t mean to, but I’ve somehow fallen in love with Caius’s brother, the current duke—Marcus. So, you see why it is so impossible.”

“Good God.” Aunt Sarah was so astonished she stood, unceremoniously dumping the cat from her lap. “Marcus Beecham? Of course—the naval man, and quite the hero, from what I’ve read. Of course, you would fall in love with him.”

She made it sound so simple. “Yes, I couldn’t seem to help myself.”

“One never can,” Aunt Sarah consoled. “So, what went wrong?”

“Everything,” Penelope said, even though so many things had gone perfectly with Beech—they had shared a true affinity. “But I suppose I didn’t have the courage to stay.”

Didn’t have the courage to watch Beech make the choice she knew he must.

“My dear girl.” Aunt Sarah came to take Penelope’s face in her frail arthritic hands. “If you love him, you must face your fears. You must go to him.”

Penelope felt fresh tears sting her eyes. “What if it’s too late? What if he’s been persuaded he no longer wants me?”

“Oh, well.” Her aunt waved her hand as if she were waving a wand and could keep such terrible things from happening. “Then you will come back to me, and we will drink tea with more brandy than is advisable, and we will cry, and we will rub along together as comfortable and consoling as two old house cats, with no one but ourselves the wiser. And in the spring, when the weather turns, we shall travel.” Aunt Sarah patted her hand. “I’ve always wanted to see Venice.”

Penelope felt heat pool behind her eyes at such a generous idea. “So have I.”

“Good.” Aunt Sarah patted her cheek. “Then make that duke of yours take you.”

Penelope could no longer keep the tears from falling. “I’m not sure I know how.”

“Sweet girl,” Aunt Sarah scoffed. “You have but to smile.”

Penelope found her mouth curving obediently. “You make it seem so simple.”

“It is,” Aunt Sarah, insisted. “Go to him. Tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep and washed those tears from your eyes. And wear a crimson cloak.” Aunt Sarah beamed at Penelope, all cat in cream. “You’ll look ravishing against the snow.”

BUT IN THE MORNING, Penelope did not go to him.

Because he came to her.

Somehow, someway, he had found her—the ducal carriage jangled in the frosty lane, and Beech himself was striding purposefully across the narrow bridge to the house, his boots kicking up snow as he came.

And then he was there, bending his tall form to fit in the low-ceilinged house. Staring at her. Looking in wonder and not accusation.

Looking in love.