She knew that half of London would think her not entirely out of bounds if she were to join The Honorable Mr. Thomas Alles on one knee and thank him and her maker for the very kind and exceedingly generous offer. After all, the gentleman in question was handsome, friendly, and had all his teeth and a full head of hair—a rare combination of traits for a not-so-young woman with a broken engagement and only a handful of suitors in her past.
She also knew that her father, who had no doubt blessed the match at some point prior to this moment—as she stared down at the top of Thomas’s well-appointed head—liked him. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had liked “That Tommy Alles” since the day, twenty-some-odd years ago, when the boy had rolled up his sleeves, hunkered down in the stables of her childhood home, and assisted in the whelping of one of the marquess’s favorite hunting dogs.
From that day on, Tommy was a good lad.
The kind of lad that Penelope had always thought her father would have liked for his own son. If, of course, he’d had a son, instead of five daughters.
And then there was the fact that Tommy would someday be a viscount—a wealthy one, at that. As Penelope’s mother was no doubt saying from her place beyond the drawing-room door, where she was no doubt watching the scene unfold in quiet desperation:
Beggars cannot be choosers, Penelope.
Penelope knew all this.
Which was why, when she met the warm brown gaze of this boy-turned-man she’d known all her life, this dear friend, she realized that this was absolutely the most generous offer of marriage she would ever receive, and she should say yes. Resoundingly.
Except she didn’t.
Instead, she said, “Why?”
The silence that followed the words was punctuated by a dramatic “What does she think she is doing?” from beyond the drawing-room door, and Tommy’s gaze filled with amusement and not a little bit of surprise as he came to his feet.
“Why not?” he replied, companionably, adding after a moment, “We’ve been friends for an age; we enjoy each other’s company; I’ve need of a wife; you’ve need of a husband.”
As reasons for marrying went, they weren’t terrible ones. Nevertheless, “I’ve been out for nine years, Tommy. You’ve had all that time to offer for me.”
Tommy had the grace to look chagrined before he smiled, looking not a small bit like a Water Dog. “That’s true. And I haven’t a good excuse for waiting except . . . well, I’m happy to say I’ve come to my senses, Pen.”
She smiled back at him. “Nonsense. You’ll never come to your senses. Why me, Tommy?” she pressed. “Why now, Tommy?”
When he laughed at the question, it wasn’t his great, booming, friendly laugh. It was a nervous laugh. The one he always laughed when he did not wish to answer the question. “It’s time to settle down,” he said, before cocking his head to one side, smiling broadly, and continuing, “Come on, Pen. Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”
Penelope had received four previous offers of marriage and imagined countless other proposals in a myriad of fashions, from the glorious, dramatic interruption of a ball to the private, wonderful proposal in a secluded gazebo in the middle of a Surrey summer. She’d imagined professions of love and undying passion, profusions of her favorite flower (the peony), blankets spread lovingly across a field of wild daisies, the crisp taste of champagne on her tongue as all of London raised their glasses to her happiness. The feel of her fiancé’s arms around her as she tossed herself into his embrace and sighed, Yes . . . Yes!
They were all fantasy—each more unlikely than the last—she knew. After all, a twenty-eight-year-old spinster was not exactly fighting off suitors.
But surely she was not out of line to hope for something more than, Let’s make a go of it, shall we?
She let out a little sigh, not wanting to upset Tommy, who was very clearly doing his best. But they’d been friends for an age, and Penelope wasn’t about to introduce lies to their friendship now. “You’re taking pity on me, aren’t you?”
His eyes went wide. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing?”
She smiled. “Because it’s true. You pity your poor, spinster friend. And you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness to be certain that I marry.”
He gave her an exasperated look—the kind of look that only one very dear friend could give another—and he lifted her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “Nonsense. It’s time I marry, Pen. You’re a good friend.” He paused, chagrin flashing in a friendly way that made it impossible to be annoyed with him. “I’ve made a hash of it, haven’t I?”
She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “A bit of one, yes. You’re supposed to profess undying love.”
He looked skeptical. “Hand to brow and all that?”
The smile became a grin. “Precisely. And perhaps write me a sonnet.”
“O, fair Lady Penelope . . . Do please consider marrying me?”
She laughed. Tommy always made her laugh. It was a good quality, that. “A shabby attempt indeed, my lord.”
He feigned a grimace. “I don’t suppose I could breed you a new kind of dog? Name it the Lady P?”