As she left, he was hit with the unexpected realization that he would willingly pay a fortune to keep that tantalizing smile on her face.
Chapter 2
Good Lord. Dinner at the club with the Chessmen. Known for their mastery of strategy and their ruthlessness when it came to tactical investment and business maneuvers, they had earned their moniker while at Oxford, and it had carried through to the present.
Penelope could hardly believe her good fortune. She’d dined with them before, here at the residence as well as at the ducal country estate. But at the club . . . well, it was unprecedented. None were admitted into their inner circle, and while she wouldn’t be in it, she would be at the edge of it, breathing the same air as they did. Even if she was going as a secretary with the specific duty of taking notes, she still felt empowered.
When it came to formal attire, her wardrobe was somewhat lacking. She usually ate her evening meal with the servants, but on the rare occasion the duke invited her to join him and his guests, it had always been an informal affair. Even when the dowager duchess was in town and deigned to have Penelope at the table, it had been with the understanding that it was because of the older woman’s generosity, and Penelope was expected to still look the part of staff, so she always wore one of her dark blue frocks.
Within her wardrobe, the only clothing that came remotely close to being formal was the pale green gown she’d worn to oversee last year’s ball so she wouldn’t look too out of place wandering among the guests as she ensured everything was being managed as it should. Still, it was rather understated, with a square neckline that revealed her collarbones and perhaps an inch and a half of skin below them, but certainly no cleavage, no swells, no hint of forbidden flesh. The sleeves were narrow puffy caps that rested off her shoulders and barely covered the top curve of her arms. The bustle was modest. The skirt was without ribbons, although it did have additional fabric that draped in a few tiers down to the floor. As for her hair—
“Lucy, I simply can’t express how much I appreciate this.”
The chambermaid smiled, the cheval glass catching her reflection. “Don’t be daft, Penn. I enjoy doing your hair. It’s incredibly manageable. I’d do it for you every morning if you asked.”
Only she wasn’t going to ask. Lucy Smithers had enough to see to, looking after all the upstairs chambers. Even when only one was occupied, she had to ensure all the others were dusted, swept, and ready to go at a minute’s notice. Still, as Penelope studied her coiffure in the mirror, the manner in which Lucy had pinned up her hair but created curls that floated down her back, she couldn’t help but wish that femininity wasn’t a detriment to being taken seriously. The pearl comb hiding the pins, helping to keep everything in place, was a nice touch. Penelope had purchased it for last year’s ball—an extravagance, but it was something her mum had always longed to possess, and so she’d justified the expense as a tribute to her departed mother.
“You look as fancy as any lady I’ve ever seen. I daresay the duke won’t half change his mind about using that advert when he catches sight of you.”
Her heart pounded so hard she was surprised she didn’t see the bodice of her gown throb in the mirror. Turning away from her reflection, she walked to the bed, picked up a white silk glove from where she’d set it earlier, and began to tug it on. “Don’t be ridiculous. He comes from too storied a family to settle for a commoner.” Especially one with beginnings such as hers.
“You never know. He wouldn’t be the first duke to do such a thing.”
If she could get to a betting book, she’d wager all her yearly earnings that he’d do no such thing. Unlike Lucy, who had a romantic bent, Penelope was moored in reality. As was Kingsland. The man hadn’t a romantic bone in his body. She knew because whenever he’d had to be absent for any length of time while courting Lady Kathryn Lambert, he’d instructed Penelope to “Send her flowers or something every few days so she knows I’m thinking of her.”
Which meant he hadn’t thought about her at all. Out of sight, out of mind. She needed to find a wife for him who didn’t cling, didn’t need to have her hand held constantly, and was strong enough to see to herself. A woman with her own interests, her own goals, who had the ability to take hold of her role as wife to the Duke of Kingsland and make it her own. An independent sort, a woman much like herself, who knew her worth was not measured by the man in her life but by her own accomplishments. Thus far in their letters, the ladies had listed books they’d read, tunes to which they enjoyed dancing, instruments mastered. The ability to manage a household. How did one go about judging a woman’s strengths based on reading words on paper? She might have to actually meet the most promising candidates.
If the woman she selected eventually rejected his suit, the failure would rest on her shoulders, but Society would place it on his—and that outcome she would not tolerate. While he hadn’t seemed to mind the recent debacle, the Duke of Kingsland was accustomed to enjoying success. Another fiasco, one delivered by her hands, might see her losing her position.
However, could she carry on, seeing him day in and day out, night in and night out, with another woman? He’d always been so discreet with his affairs that sometimes she wasn’t even certain if he’d had any. But a man as virile as he couldn’t go long without seeing to his sexual needs.
She picked up her reticule. It contained her notebook and pencil, since the gown was flawed and possessed no pocket. In spite of her requesting the modiste include two, the woman had failed to do so, citing something about them ruining the lines. Lines were not more important than pockets, but she’d had no time to have another gown sewn before it was needed. So here she was with a defective gown, but taking another quick glance in the mirror, she had to admit she looked quite well turned out in it.
“Wake me when you get in,” Lucy said as she followed her into the hallway. “I want to hear all about your evening and the gaming hell—whatever bit of it you can see.”
“I can’t imagine we’ll be out so late that you’ll be abed by the time we return.” She headed down the stairs. When she reached the bottom of them, a couple of footmen stopped to grin stupidly at her as though she wasn’t the woman who often scolded them for being so loud she could hear them in her office and barely concentrate. “Off with you. Haven’t you work to do?”
“You look quite lovely, Miss Pettypeace,” Harry said.
She feared she was blushing, couldn’t remember the last time she had—although it was possible it might have happened that morning when the duke tucked her wayward strands of hair behind her ear. He’d never performed such an intimate service for her before, and it had taken nearly an hour to get her lungs to behave properly again. “Thank you, Harry.”
“Enjoy your evening.”
“I shall.”
“Remember,” Lucy said, “to come tell me everything.”
“All right. Although I doubt there will be anything of significance to report.” After all, it was merely dinner, and she was to take notes. Nothing out of the ordinary from her regular duties, except for the location. Then she grinned as stupidly as the footmen had. She was going to a gentlemen’s club.