Penelope’s throat was working like mad, struggling to swallow against the knot of sawdust that appeared to have become lodged there. “But . . . no one but Tommy has proposed to me in four years.”

  “Tommy’s just the beginning. They’ll propose now.” She’d seen the look of complete certainty in her father’s eyes enough times in her life to know that he was right.

  She looked her father straight in the eye. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve added Falconwell to your dowry.”

  He said it in the manner in which one would say things like, It’s a bit cold. Or, This fish needs more salt. As though everyone at the table would simply accept the words as truth. As though four heads would not turn to him, eyes wide, jaws dropped.

  “Oh! Needham!” Lady Needham was off again.

  Penelope did not take her gaze from her father. “I beg your pardon?”

  A memory flashed. A laughing, dark-haired boy, clinging to a low branch of a massive willow tree, reaching down and urging Penelope to join him in his hiding place.

  The third of the trio.

  Falconwell was Michael’s.

  Even if it hadn’t belonged to him in a decade, she’d always think of it that way. It did not feel right that it was somehow, strangely, hers now. All that beautiful, lush land, everything but the house and immediate grounds—the entail.

  Michael’s birthright.

  Now hers.

  “How did you get Falconwell?”

  “How is not relevant,” the marquess said, not looking up from his meal. “I can’t have you risking your sisters’ successes on the marriage mart any longer. You need to get yourself married. You shan’t be a spinster for the rest of your days; Falconwell will ensure it. Already has, it looks like. If you don’t like Tommy, I’ve already a half dozen letters of interest from men across Britain.”

  Men who wanted Falconwell.

  Let me protect you.

  Tommy’s strange words from earlier made sense now. He’d proposed to keep her from the mess of proposals that would come for her dowry. He’d proposed because he was her friend.

  And he’d proposed for Falconwell. There was a small parcel of land belonging to Viscount Langford on the far side of Falconwell. Someday, it would be Tommy’s and, if she married him, he’d have Falconwell to add to it.

  “Of course!” Olivia interjected. “That explains it!”

  He hadn’t told her.

  Penelope had known he wasn’t really interested in marrying her, but the proof of it wasn’t exactly a pleasant discovery. She remained focused on her father. “The dowry. It is public?”

  “Of course it’s public. What good is it tripling the value of your daughter’s dowry if you don’t make it public?” Penelope ran a fork through her turnip mash, wishing she were anywhere but at that table, at that moment, when her father said, “Don’t look so miserable. Thank your stars you’ll finally have yourself a husband. With Falconwell in your dowry, you could win yourself a prince.”

  “I find myself tiring of princes, Father.”

  “Penelope! No one tires of princes!” her mother interjected.

  “I should like to meet a prince,” Olivia interjected, chewing thoughtfully. “If Penelope doesn’t want Falconwell, I should happily have it as part of my dowry.”

  Penelope slid her gaze to her youngest sister. “Yes, I imagine you would, Olivia. But I doubt you will need it.” Olivia had the same pale hair and pale skin and pale blue eyes that Penelope had, but instead of making her look as Penelope did—like tepid dishwater—Olivia was breathtakingly beautiful and the kind of woman who could snap her fingers and bring men to her side.

  Worse, she knew it.

  “You do need it. Especially now,” Lord Needham said pragmatically before turning back to Penny. “There was a time when you were young enough to capture the attention of a decent man, but you’re well past that.”

  Penelope wished that one of her sisters would enter into the fray to defend her. To protest their father’s words. To say, perhaps, Penelope doesn’t need it. Someone wonderful will come along and stumble into love with her. At first sight. Obviously.

  She ignored the pang of sadness that flared at the silent acceptance of the words. Penelope saw the truth in her father’s gaze. The certainty. And she knew, without a doubt, that she would be married as her father willed, as though it were the Middle Ages, and he was carving off a little piece of his fiefdom.

  Except he wasn’t carving off anything. “How is it possible that Falconwell now belongs to the Marquess of Needham and Dolby?”

  “That shouldn’t worry you.”

  “But it does,” Penelope pressed. “Where did you get it? Does Michael know?”

  “Don’t know,” the marquess said, lifting his wineglass. “Imagine it’s only a matter of time before he does.”

  “Who knows what Michael knows,” her mother scoffed. “No one in polite society has seen the Marquess of Bourne for years.”

  Not since he disappeared in scandal. Not since he’d lost everything to Tommy’s father.

  Penelope shook her head. “Did you try to return it to him?”

  “Penelope! Don’t be ungrateful!” the marchioness trilled. “The addition of Falconwell to your dowry is a shining example of your father’s generosity!”

  An example of her father’s desire to rid himself of his troublesome daughter.

  “I don’t want it.”

  She knew the words were a lie even as she said them. Of course she wanted it. The lands attached to Falconwell were lush and vibrant and filled with memories of her childhood.

  With memories of Michael.

  It had been years since she’d seen him—she’d been a child when he’d left Falconwell, and barely out when his scandal had been the talk of London aristocrats and Surrey servants. Now, if she heard of him at all, it was in snippets of gossip from more experienced women of the ton. He was in London running a gaming hell, she’d once heard from a particularly chatty group of women in a ladies’ salon, but she’d never asked where, seeming to know instinctively that ladies like herself did not frequent the place where Michael had landed when he’d fallen from grace.

  “You don’t have a choice, Penelope. It’s mine. And soon it will be your husband’s. Men from across Britain will come for a chance to win it. Marry Tommy now or one of them later, if you like. But you’ll marry this season.” He leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands over his wide girth. “One day, you’ll thank me.”

  You’ll marry this season.

  “Why didn’t you return it to Michael?”

  Needham sighed, throwing down his napkin and rising from the table, through with the conversation. “He was careless with it in the first place,” he said simply before quitting the room, Lady Needham fast on his heels.

  It might have been sixteen years since she’d seen him last, but a part of her still considered Michael Lawler, Marquess of Bourne, a dear friend, and she did not like the way her father spoke of him, as though he were of little value and less import.

  But then, she really didn’t know Michael—not the man. When she allowed herself to think of him, more often than she’d like to admit, he was not a twenty-one-year-old who had lost everything in a silly game of chance.

  No, in her thoughts, Michael remained her childhood friend—the first she’d ever made—twelve years old, leading her across the muddy landscape on one adventure or another, laughing at inopportune moments until she could not resist laughing with him, muddying his knees in the damp fields that stretched between their houses and throwing pebbles at her window on summer mornings before he headed off to fish in the lake that straddled Needham and Bourne lands.

  She supposed the lake was part of her dowry, now.

  Michael would have to ask permission to fish there.

  He would have to ask her husband permission to fish there.

  The idea would be laughable if it weren’t so . . . wrong.

  And no one seemed to notice.

  Penelope looked up, meeting first Pippa’s gaze across the table, wide blue eyes blinking behind her spectacles, then Olivia’s, filled with . . . relief?

  At Penelope’s questioning glance, Olivia said, “I confess I did not like the idea of a sister who had failed at the marriage mart. It’s much better this way for me.”

  “I’m happy someone can be satisfied with the events of the day,” Penelope said.

  “Well, really, Penny,” Olivia pressed on, “you have to admit, your marrying will help us all. You were a significant reason for Victoria’s and Valerie’s settling for their boring old husbands.”

  It was not as though she’d planned it that way.

  “Olivia!” Pippa said quietly, “that’s not very nice.”

  “Oh, tosh. Penny knows it’s true.”

  Did she?

  She looked to Pippa. “Have I made it difficult for you?”

  Pippa hedged. “Not at all. Castleton sent news to Father just last week that he was planning to court me in earnest, and it’s not as though I’m the most ordinary of debutantes.”

  It was an understatement. Pippa was something of a bluestocking, very focused on the sciences and fascinated by the insides of living things, from plants to people. She’d once stolen a goose from the kitchens and dissected it in her bedchamber. All had been well until a maid had entered, discovered Pippa up to her elbows in fowl entrails, and screamed as though she’d stumbled upon a Seven Dials murder scene.

  Pippa had been scolded profusely, and the maid had been reassigned to the lower floors of the manor house.

  “He should be named Lord Simpleton,” Olivia said, frankly.

  Pippa chuckled. “Stop. He’s nice enough. He likes dogs.” She looked to Penelope. “As does Tommy.”

  “This is what we’ve come to? Choosing our potential husbands because they like dogs?” Olivia asked.

  Pippa lifted one shoulder simply. “This is how it’s done. Liking dogs is more than most husbands and wives of the ton have in common.”

  She was right.

  But it was not as it should be. Young women with the looks and breeding of her sisters should be choosing their husbands based on more than canine companionship. They should be darlings of the ton, with all of society in their hands, waiting to be molded.

  But they weren’t, because of Penelope, who, ironically, had been considered the most darling of darlings of the ton when she’d first been out—the chosen bride of the impeccably behaved, impeccably pedigreed Duke of Leighton. After their match had dissolved in a perfect storm of ruined young women, illegitimate children, and a love match for the ages, Penelope—tragically, for her sisters—had lost darling status. Instead, she’d been relegated to good friend of the ton, then welcome acquaintance and, more recently, guest, complete with long-overstayed welcome.

  She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t clever. She wasn’t very much of anything except the eldest daughter of a very rich, very titled aristocrat. Born and bred to be the wife of an equally rich, equally titled aristocrat.

  And she’d almost been just that.

  Until everything had changed.

  Including her expectations.

  Sadly, expectations did not make for good marriages. Not for her, and not for her sisters, either. And, just as it was not fair for her to suffer because of a near-decade-old broken engagement, it was not fair for her sisters to suffer for it either.

  “I never intended to make it difficult for you to marry,” she said, quietly.

  “You are lucky, then, that you are able to rectify the situation,” Olivia offered, obviously disinterested in her eldest sister’s feelings. “After all, your chances of finding a quality husband may be slim, but mine are very good indeed. Even better if you’re married to a future viscount.”

  Guilt flared, and Penelope turned to Pippa, who was watching her carefully. “Do you agree, Pippa?”

  Pippa tilted her head, considering her options, finally settling on, “It can’t hurt, Penny.”

  Not you, at least, Penelope thought under a wave of melancholy as she realized that she was going to accept Tommy’s suit.

  For the good of her sisters.

  She could do much worse, after all. Perhaps, in time, she would love him.

  * * *

  Dear M—

  They burned the Guy tonight in Coldharbour, and the entire Marbury clan headed out for the impressive display. I had to write, as I was quite distressed to discover that not one young man was willing to test his skill at climbing the woodpile to steal Mr. Fawkes’s hat.

  Perhaps at Christmas, you can teach them a thing or two.

  Your loyal friend—P

  Needham Manor, November 1813

  * * *

  Dear P—

  They don’t need me to teach them—not when you’re there and perfectly capable of stealing that shabby cap yourself. Or are you too much of a lady these days?

  I shall be home for Christmas. If you are very good, I shall bring you a gift.

  —M

  Eton College, November 1813

  That night, when all the house was asleep, Penelope donned her warmest cloak, fetched her muff and a lantern from her writing desk, and took a walk on her land.

  Well, not precisely her land. The land that was attached to her hand in marriage. The land that Tommy and any number of handsome young suitors would happily accept in exchange for plucking Penelope from her family fold and taking her to wife.

  How very romantic.

  She’d gone too many years hoping for more. Believing—even as she told herself not to—that she might be that lucky, too. That she might find something more, someone more.

  No. She wouldn’t think on it.

  Especially not now that she was headed straight for precisely the kind of marriage she’d always hoped to avoid. Now, she had no doubt that her father was committed to marrying off his eldest child this season—to Tommy or someone else. She considered the unmarried men of the ton who were desperate enough to marry a twenty-eight-year-old with a broken engagement in her past. Not a single one seemed like a husband she could care for.

  A husband she could love.

  So, it was Tommy.

  It would be Tommy.

  She braced herself against the cold, ducking her face into her cloak and pulling her hood low over her brow. Well-bred ladies did not take walks in the dead of night, she knew, but all of Surrey was asleep, it was miles to the nearest neighbor, and the bitter cold matched her bitter irritation at the events of the day.

  It was not fair that a broken engagement from the distant past made for such a challenging present. One would think that eight years would have made London forget the legendary autumn of 1823, but instead, Penelope was plagued with her history. In ballrooms, the whispers remained; in ladies’ salons, the fans still fluttered like hummingbird wings, hiding the quiet conversations of which she caught snippets now and then—hushed speculation about what she’d done to lose the interest of her duke, or about why she thought herself high enough to turn down the other offers.

  It wasn’t that she thought highly of herself, of course.

  It was that she thought highly of the promise of more.

  Of a life filled with more than the husband she’d been trained to expect would be fond of her but not love her, and the child or two who she’d always assumed would love her but not know her.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Apparently.

  She marched up a snowy rise, pausing briefly on the crest of the ridge, looking down toward the blackness of the lake below, the lake that marked the edge of Needham and Bourne lands . . . or, former Bourne lands. And, as she stood, staring into the darkness, thinking on her future, she realized just how little she wanted a quiet life of pastel colors and quadrilles and tepid lemonade.

  She wanted more.

  The word whispered through her thoughts on a wave of sadness.

  More.

  More than she would have, it turned out.

  More than she ever should have dreamed.

  It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her existence. It was luxurious, really. She was well kept and well fed and wanted for very little. She had a family that was, for the most part, tolerable, and friends with whom she could spend an afternoon now and then. And, when it came right down to it, her days weren’t that much different now than they would be if she were married to Tommy.

  Why did it make her so sad to think of marrying Tommy, then?

  After all, he was kind, generous, had a modicum of good humor and a warm smile. He was not so handsome as to attract attention and not so clever as to intimidate.

  Those all seemed like suitable characteristics.

  She imagined taking his hand and allowing him to escort her to a ball, to the theatre, to dinner. She imagined dancing with him. Smiling up at him. She imagined the feel of his hand in hers.

  It was—

  It was clammy.

  There was no reason to believe that Tommy would have moist hands, of course, indeed, he likely had warm, perfectly dry hands. Penelope wiped her gloved palm on her skirts nonetheless. Weren’t husbands supposed to have strong, firm hands? Especially in fantasy?

  Why didn’t Tommy?

  He was a good friend. It wasn’t very kind of her to imagine him with clammy hands. He deserved better.

  She took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the frigid air, closed her eyes, and tried again . . . tried her very best to imagine being Lady Thomas Alles.

  She smiled up at her husband. Lovingly.

  He smiled down at her. “Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”