I haven’t anything to say, really, nothing that every other person in Surrey hasn’t already said. It seems silly to say, “I am sorry,” doesn’t it? Of course, everyone is sorry. It’s horrible, what’s happened.
I am not only sorry for your loss, however; I am sorry that we were not able to talk when you were home. I am sorry that I could not attend the funeral . . . it’s a stupid rule, and I wish I had been born a male so I could have been there (I plan to have a chat with Vicar Compton regarding that idiocy). I am sorry I could not be—more of a friend.
I am here now, on the page, where girls are allowed. Please write when you have time. Or inclination.
Your friend—P
Needham Manor, April 1816
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Surely there had never been a longer carriage ride than this—four interminable, deathly silent hours from Surrey to London. Penelope would rather have been trapped in a mail coach with Olivia and a collection of ladies’ magazines.
She slid a glance across the wide, dark interior of the conveyance, taking in her hours-old husband, leaning back against his seat, long legs extended, eyes closed, corpse-still, and attempted to quiet her rioting thoughts, which seemed to be focused on a handful of extraordinarily disquieting things. Namely: She was married.
Which led to,
She was the Marchioness of Bourne.
Which explained why,
She was traveling in a conveyance that was stuffed to the gills with her possessions and would soon be in London, where she would live, with her new husband.
Which brought her to,
Michael was her new husband.
Which meant,
She would share her wedding night with Michael.
Perhaps he’d kiss her again. Touch her again.
More.
One would think he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If they were married. It was what husbands and wives did, after all.
She hoped.
Oh, dear.
The thought was enough to make her wish she had the courage to throw open the door to the carriage and toss herself right out of the vehicle.
They’d been married so quickly and so efficiently that she barely remembered the ceremony—barely remembered promising to love, comfort, honor, and obey, which was probably for the best, as the love portion of the promise was something of a lie.
He’d married her for land and nothing else.
And it did not matter that he’d touched her and made her feel things she’d never imagined a body could feel. In the end, this was precisely the kind of marriage she’d been raised to have—a marriage of convenience. A marriage of duty. A marriage of propriety.
He’d made that more than clear.
The coach bounced over a particularly uneven bit of road, and Penelope gave a little squeak as she nearly slid off the extravagantly upholstered seat. Regaining her composure, she rearranged herself, planting both of her feet squarely on the floor of the coach and throwing a glance toward Michael, who had not moved, except to open his eyes to slits—presumably to ensure that she had not injured herself.
When he was certain that she was not in need of a surgeon, he closed his eyes once more.
He was ignoring her, his silence easy and utterly off-putting.
He couldn’t even feign interest in her.
Perhaps, if she weren’t so consumed by nervousness at the events of the day, she might have been able to remain quiet herself—to match him silence for silence.
Perhaps.
Penelope would never know, because she was unable to remain silent for a moment longer.
She cleared her throat, as though preparing to make a public statement. He opened his eyes and slid his gaze to her but did not move otherwise. “I think it would be best if we took this time to discuss our plan.”
“Our plan?”
“The plan to ensure that my sisters have a successful season. You do recall your promise?” Her hand moved to the pocket of her traveling dress, where the coin he’d given her two nights earlier weighed heavily against her thigh.
Something she couldn’t recognize played across his face. “I recall the promise.”
“What is the plan?”
He stretched, his legs extending even farther across the coach. “I plan to find husbands for your sisters.”
She blinked. “You mean suitors.”
“If you like. I’ve two men in mind.”
Curiosity flared. “What are they like?”
“Titled.”
“And?” she prompted.
“And in the market for wives.”
He was exasperating. “Do they have sound, husbandly traits?”
“In the sense that they are male and unmarried.”
Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “Those are not the qualities to which I refer.”
“Qualities.”
“The characteristics that make for a good husband.”
“You are expert in the subject, I see.” He dipped his head, mocking her. “Please. Enlighten me.”
She pulled herself up, ticking the items off on her fingers as she went. “Kindness. Generosity. A modicum of good humor—”
“Only a modicum of it? Ill humor on say, Tuesdays and Thursdays would be acceptable?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Good humor,” she repeated before pausing, then adding, “A warm smile.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Though, in your case, I would accept any smile at all.”