They were indulging in their second bottle of Bordeaux and beginning a course of beef filet smothered in a glazed sauce. She certainly found no fault with the chef who managed the kitchens of Dodger’s Drawing Room.
“I say, King, I suppose you’ve heard the news that your former fiancée is soon to marry Mr. Griffith Stanwick,” Knight said.
She sensed a subtle drop in temperature at the table as Kingsland sliced his filet while the other gents reached for their wineglasses, their attention homed in on him.
“To be clear, we were never betrothed. She was merely a woman I courted. I wish her naught but the best.”
“Well, she’s already lost out on that, hasn’t she, old boy?” Rook asked. “After all, she turned you down.”
“She’d have never been happy with me.”
“Will any woman be?” Knight asked.
“One whose heart remains in her keeping, I should think.”
Penelope made a mental note to ask after a lady’s heart when she began holding her interviews, to discover if it belonged to someone else. Yet if Kingsland had no heart to give, as he claimed, was it fair to ask a woman to deny herself, even for a short while, the joy to be found in falling in love with another? But if she loved another, would she have written to him? However, a title, prestige, influence, and wealth were strong motivators for some, more important than love for a few. If parents were particularly overbearing, all choice was taken away. Few young ladies could afford to be rebellious. She knew that well enough, regretted the one time she had rebelled herself, because it had cost her family dearly.
“I hear Stanwick’s club is doing quite well,” Bishop said. “Are you familiar with it, Pettypeace?”
She had always liked that the duke’s friends had quickly adopted his practice of dispensing with the Miss portion when addressing her, as though they recognized she was equal to them, at least when it came to the business aspect of their lives. “I’ve heard some rumors regarding it.”
It was a scandalous place where the unmarried went to seek companionship for an evening. No chaperones were allowed. Women with no reputation to worry over or no hope of marriage frequented the place. Men in want of something other than a business arrangement that concluded with an impersonal bedding spent an evening at the club.
“You’re not a member?”
“Certainly not.” That wasn’t to say she hadn’t considered it. She wondered if these chaps were members.
“What is it called again?” Rook asked.
“The Fair Ladies’ and Spare Gentlemen’s Club,” Kingsland answered as though irritated by the name. “Firstborn sons who are to inherit a title are not allowed. Although I’m given to understand that firstborn sons of commoners are welcomed. And there is an age restriction on women. They must be at least five-and-twenty to gain membership.”
“Quite on the shelf then,” Bishop mused.
“I find it ridiculous that ladies are put out to pasture at such a tender age when men are never considered on the shelf,” she dared to say out loud.
“I agree,” Kingsland said. “Women tend to get interesting only after they’ve had some seasoning to them.”
She glanced over to find him studying her steadfastly, his thumb and forefinger slowly stroking the stem of his wineglass, and she fought against imagining him stroking aspects of her person just as leisurely, savoring the texture of her skin, finding portions of it silkier. “But interesting is not a criterion you specified you wanted in your duchess.”
“It’s not.”
“Then I need not eliminate those who are unseasoned.”
“No.”
“Good God,” Bishop exclaimed. “Pray, do tell us you’ve not given the task of finding you a wife to Pettypeace.”
Kingsland shrugged a shoulder the gods had designed for carrying heavy burdens. “I botched it royally the last time. Besides, I found it a tedious undertaking, and the whole point of my method is to save me some bother.”
“Therefore, you give the task to a woman who is as skilled as any of us at detecting a worthy investment?”
She was rather glad she’d not worn one of her serviceable frocks, because the buttons down the front would have popped off with the swelling of her chest at the compliment, at being considered as skilled as these men who were recognized as being without match when it came to identifying sound ventures.
“I employ Pettypeace to handle the unpleasant tasks.”
Bishop scoffed and grumbled beneath his breath, “More fool you.” Then he winked at her. “If you’re ever of a mind to secure a position where you wish to encounter only the more pleasurable aspects, let me know. I’ll hire you on the spot.”
“Pettypeace is mine. Attempt to steal her from me and I’ll see you destroyed.”
Her breath caught at the growled words. Surely, Kingsland was jesting, although the tautness of his jaw and the ticking of a muscle in his cheek made him appear deadly serious.
“I would expect no less,” Bishop said casually, calmly, and she was surprised his hand wasn’t shaking when he picked up his wineglass, but his gaze remained steadfastly on Kingsland, almost daring him to come at him, then and there.
The tension at the table suddenly seemed quite thick. A few shifting in chairs and clearing of throats ensued, and she wasn’t at all certain the others weren’t anticipating the two men coming to blows. Should she announce she would never leave him, never abandon him? But even as she had the thought, she knew it was dangerous to make a promise that might cause the fates to laugh and seek to prove her wrong. If he ever learned the truth of her past . . . it did not bear thinking about. And if she discovered she could not live with the torment of seeing him with his wife—well, she certainly wouldn’t take Bishop up on his offer. She would need to go far away, where she would never have the opportunity to see Kingsland thriving in the marriage that she had arranged for him.
“I say, Bishop,” Knight began cautiously, “weren’t you going to share with us some investment opportunity?”
“Ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I did have something I thought we might find as enticing as Pettypeace.”
Enticing? Her? He was jesting now because she was no great beauty, and yet his words reflected kindness, not a mocking tone, as though he admired her. She did hope they would attribute the heightening color scalding her cheeks to the wine.
Penelope leaned down for her reticule that she’d placed on the floor beside her chair earlier so she’d have easy access to it, set it on the table, and reached inside for her notebook. She had it halfway out when Kingsland’s hand landed on hers, nearly smothering it. His was so large and incredibly warm. Fascinatingly intoxicating. Never before had he touched her so solidly, and for several heartbeats she stared at his long, thick fingers, his smoothly buffed nails, the raised tendons and veins that reflected power. When she finished her thorough perusal and lifted her astonished gaze, she discovered him intensely studying the joining as though he couldn’t quite determine how it had happened. Or perhaps he was contemplating how best to extricate himself from the situation without drawing attention to it.
Finally, he said with a hushed whisper that she imagined he used with his lovers, “You don’t require your notebook.”