29
By the time he managed a hasty wash and changed his ruined clothes Benedick had kept Miss Pennington waiting a goodly amount of time. Miranda had flatly refused to entertain her while he made himself halfway presentable, so he’d sent Richmond in with sugar cakes and tea while he stripped, washed, changed and took one horrified look at himself in the mirror.
The cut above his eyebrow was absurdly small to have caused so much blood, and it did little to distract from his bloodshot eyes and the circles beneath them. He needed to be shaved as well, but there was hardly enough time to manage that. Richmond usually did the honors, and if he attempted it himself, he’d probably cut his throat.
Which, in retrospect, wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Well, if they were to be married, she’d be seeing him unshaven, across the sheets of the marriage bed. He shuddered, instinctively, and paused outside the door to the blue salon. He shouldn’t have had Richmond put her in there. He’d spent too much time with Charity Carstairs in that room.
Though presumably he’d be sharing his bedroom, his bed with Miss Pennington. The same room and bed he’d shared with Melisande. If anything would lay her ghost it would be Dorothea’s pinched face.
Straightening himself, he opened the door.
Miss Pennington was sitting by the fire, ramrod straight, her gloved hands folded perfectly in her lap, her face set in impatient lines. It was a handsome face, he realized with surprise. Good bones, clear skin, symmetrical, with wide-set eyes and a Cupid’s bow of a mouth. If she were a little softer, she might have been considered a beauty. Perhaps he could soften her.
She turned to look at him, rising, and there was disapproval in those flinty eyes. “You hardly look ready to receive guests, Rohan,” she observed.
“Indeed, I must ask your pardon. I decided I had kept you waiting for too long and hoped you would forgive me my dishabille.”
She didn’t look like she was about to forgive anything, but then she smiled, mechanically. “Of course, dear sir.” She sank back down, allowing him to take the chair he so badly needed.
“And to what do I owe the extreme and unexpected honor of your visit, Miss Pennington?” He had no idea whether it was his hangover or the blow on his head, but he could fathom no reason at all why she’d be here.
“It’s dreadfully forward of me, I know, but I hadn’t seen you in a while, and I was concerned. I wanted to assure myself that you were quite well.”
He hoped the hunted feeling didn’t show on his face. She was like a prize spaniel in search of its prey. Except that he liked spaniels.
“Quite well, Miss Pennington. I beg your pardon—I’ve been dealing with a pressing family matter.” He glanced around, desperate to change the topic. “But you haven’t touched your tea. Allow me to ring for fresh…”
“No, thank you, Rohan. I have a strong dislike of sweets and consider afternoon tea to be a weakness of the constitution.”
He couldn’t help it. The plate was piled high with the sweet cakes that Melisande adored. Left alone with them, she probably wouldn’t have left a crumb. There was something so…reassuring about a woman with an honest appetite.
He wiped the thought from his mind. Dorothea Pennington wasn’t improving his headache, and the sooner she departed the better. “So true,” he said vaguely, knowing he would give his right arm for a cup of even lukewarm tea. “And how may I assist you, Miss Pennington?”
Her posture was so rigidly correct that he would have said it impossible, but she seemed to draw herself up even more. “May I be frank, Lord Rohan?”
“I wish you would, my dear Miss Pennington.”
“I think we should be married.”
It was a good thing he wasn’t drinking tea—he would have choked. As it was he kept his expression schooled, shielding his shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, I know, it’s completely forward of me, but you and I are mature people, and you have already shown a marked partiality toward me. Several people have noted it, and I am certain you would never have paid such particular attention without meaning to follow through. You are, above all things, a gentleman, and I know I can count on you to behave as you ought. You would never bring me a moment’s shame, and your title, though connected to a name that is ramshackle in the extreme, is high enough that a Pennington would not blush to be connected. My family goes back to William the Conqueror, and we may look as high as we please when it comes to marriage, but I think you and I should suit extremely. I would like to get married in the fall, and it takes a great deal of time to arrange a wedding on the magnitude that would befit a Pennington, and I really cannot afford to be patient any longer. I decided it would make things a great deal simpler if I took the bull by the horns, so to speak.”
He assumed he didn’t look as aghast as he felt. “Very thorough. And very direct, Miss Pennington. I appreciate your forthright attitude.”
“I imagined you would.” A self-satisfied smile curved her small mouth. He didn’t trust a woman with a small mouth. Melisande’s was wide and generous. “I thought St. Paul’s would be the logical choice for the ceremony. Westminster Abbey is inconveniently located—” she made it sound like a personal affront “—and we would have to wait until next spring for a proper date.”
“You’ve already checked?” he said faintly.
“I am a thorough woman. I presume you will leave these petty details to me? I am more than capable of dealing with them.”
“I am sure you are,” he said. He could stand it no longer—he reached for the teapot. Cold tea was better than none, but Miss Pennington, eyeing him with disapproval, took the teapot from his hand.
“If you feel in need of a reviving beverage I will ring for fresh water. Your servants are not what I would call remarkable. The old man who brought me in here is far past the age of usefulness. He should be replaced with someone younger.”
“That would quite break Richmond’s heart.”
She looked at him, for the first time honestly confused. “Is there any particular reason why his feelings should be considered in the matter? One needs to be practical about such things.”
“Indeed,” he said slowly. She didn’t ring for fresh water, and he knew there was no way he was going to be able to pour himself tea without her wresting the pot from him once more. He settled back to suffer in silence.
“I am glad we’re agreed upon that.” A trace of smugness now tinged her small mouth. Melisande hadn’t liked her, he recalled. In fact, she’d referred to the woman as “a mean-spirited piece of work.” Unfortunately apt.
“While we’re on the subject,” the mean-spirited piece of work continued, “we should come to an understanding on other matters. I would expect to run my household with no interference from you. I have been trained my entire life to run a gentleman’s estate, and the size of yours should offer no challenge at all.” Thus with a few words she dismissed his admittedly impressive estates and inheritance. “We would, of course, expect to have children, and I would scarce deny you the marriage bed, but you have a certain reputation for…lasciviousness. No gentleman would ever insult his wife by making her suffer such lewd attentions, but I wanted to make it clear from the outset that I will countenance no displays of lustfulness. We will come together in the hope of being fruitful. I rather thought three children—any more and it hints of ill manners. An heir and a spare for you, and a daughter I can raise and mold in my own image.”
Christ, he thought, aghast. Two Dorothy Penningtons in this world beggared description. Two in his own family was insupportable.
“One cannot always control the sex of one’s offspring,” he ventured.
She frowned at him. “The word gender is more genteel. You will find I am a very forward-thinking woman, my dear Rohan. Our country is headed for a correction, a move into more circumspect times, where language will be tempered and behavior will be just as it ought. The ramshackle times of our fathers is past.”
More’s the pity, he thought. He schooled his expression into one of polite interest. “And did you have any other thoughts about our future together?”
“Of course.” He half expected her to whip out a list, but apparently she’d memorized it. “This house is too small for a proper town residence. It does fine for a bachelor, but would scarcely do for entertaining, and I am not fond of the address. I thought a house in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square might be nice.”
“Indeed,” he said noncommittally. He loved his house.
“I have yet to inspect your country estates, but since we won’t be spending much time in either one of them I doubt it matters. I’m a city woman, dear Rohan. I dislike the country and all form of sports. I do hope you don’t hunt.”
“I do occasionally,” he admitted, though he had his own misgivings about the sport.
“You will cease. And another thing. I suppose I should handle this delicately, but I believe in facing things with no roundaboutation, and we may as well start out as we mean to go on.”
“Indeed,” he said politely.
“Your family.” She concealed a delicate shudder, but just barely. “I realize we must certainly continue an association with your parents, and while your father’s past is reprehensible, your mother appears to be beyond reproach, and she has provided a civilizing effect, just as I expect to do with you.”
He was a far cry from the wild young lord Adrian Rohan in his heyday, but he decided that silence was best at this juncture. He simply bowed his head in seeming acquiescence.
“However, the rest of your family is another matter. While I have no quarrel with your brother Charles and his unexceptional wife, your other siblings have proven themselves to be…shall we say, undesirable…company.”
Shall we say, take a damper, Benedick thought with a certain amount of savagery. He plastered a smile on his face. “Indeed?” he said in an encouraging tone.
“We both know your sister has proven herself beyond the pale more than once,” she continued. “She was ruined, and yet, instead of retiring to the country and living out her life in genteel obscurity she chose to stay in London, her very presence an affront to decent women. And then, to marry that awful man who is no more than a…a criminal! At least she has the sense to keep out of London. I gather she drops babies like a peasant. We shall need to cut that connection entirely. You would hardly expect me to acknowledge her socially. I have my own reputation to consider.”
“And you think it isn’t strong enough to withstand association with my sister? I wonder you even considered my suit in the first place,” he said evenly.
“I did think long and hard on it,” Miss Pennington admitted frankly. “But I knew you abhorred your sister’s choices as much as I did, and would be more than happy to cut the connection.”
“And my brother Brandon?”
She made a face, as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Indeed, I gather he’s been in town, though thankfully he’s kept out of the public eye. It’s a very difficult situation. I know the poor boy has suffered dreadfully for his country, but we really can’t expect our guests to have to look at his disfigurements and still manage to have a pleasant evening. We can entertain him when we’re in the countryside, of course, as long as we have no houseguests and our children are kept in the nursery. But you must understand my hesitation. I prefer to be surrounded by beauty.”
He wondered what would happen if he took the teapot and dumped its contents on her head. “I understand you completely.”
“Then we’re agreed,” she said, too well-bred to sound too overtly smug. “I would like a ring to signify our betrothal. Something discreet, valuable but not too flashy. I’ve chosen one at my jewelers—I’ll give you the direction and you may pick it up tomorrow.”
“You’re very thorough, but I’m afraid I’ll be busy tomorrow. I have to go into the country.”
“Not that wretched house party that my brother is attending? I’m not sure I approve. I think in the future you should use your influence to help my brother get a post in the government. Nothing that requires real labor, more a social nicety. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I can,” he said. Where I would or not is a different matter.
“Then you may fetch the ring next week. I’ve had my secretary draw up an announcement, and she will send it to the papers as soon as I return home.”
Christ’s blood, he thought in horror. He had to move fast or he’d find himself leg-shackled to his worst nightmare. She’d give him children. She’d leave him alone. He would never care about her. Exactly what he’d been so sure he wanted. Now he wanted to drown her in the Thames.
She was already preparing to leave. She rose, casting her gimlet gaze his way. “You may kiss me, my dear Rohan.”
He’d rather kiss a charging boar. “One moment, Miss Pennington,” he said politely, heading for the door, prepared to send Richmond on a hunt. It was easier than he expected. Richmond and his sister were hovering by the door, clearly eavesdropping, and the Scorpion lounged nearby on one of the love seats in the hallway.
Miranda’s expression was a cross between amusement and doubt, and he felt a moment’s shame. She really thought it was possible that he might repudiate her for someone like Dorothea Pennington. “Well, my dear,” he said to her, “are you prepared to meet my fiancée?”
Her expression was stricken. “I gather she doesn’t wish to meet me.”
“Nothing good comes to those who eavesdrop. Usually.” He swung open the door and ushered his sister’s very pregnant form inside, leaving the door open for his brother-in-law and Richmond to observe.
Miss Pennington’s face had frozen, making her look like a startled hake. “Miss Pennington,” Benedick said smoothly. “I don’t believe you’re acquainted with my sister, Lady Rochdale. She is quite my favorite sibling, even if I haven’t always cared for her choices, and when I marry again I would want her as one of the bride’s attendants. Mind you, she’ll most likely be in some stage of pregnancy, given her alarming level of fecundity, but dressmakers know how to adjust for such exigencies. Her husband, of course, will be one of my attendants, though I expect my baby brother, Brandon, will stand up with me as well. We’ve always been very close.”
Miss Pennington’s mouth opened and closed without a word issuing forth, and Benedick continued on. “Of course, Brandon is currently dealing with an unpleasant addiction to opium and alcohol, but I imagine we’ll be able to prop him up long enough to get through the ceremony. Your own brother has been keeping company with the Heavenly Host, so I doubt his behavior has been much better, but the two of them can keep each other company, can they not?”
He heard Miranda’s gurgle of laughter from beside him, and he realized how much he had missed that sound. Missed his sister. So much that he’d stomach the Scorpion to have her back in his life.
Miss Pennington was glaring. “You insult me, sir. If you think I don’t know that my brother has been disporting himself with those gentlemen then you think I’m a great deal stupider than I am. There’s a difference—their activities are held in secret, among their own class, and the only ones who are hurt are whores and peasants.”
“Peasants, Miss Pennington? That seems an oddly archaic term. Do you still keep serfs on your estates in Cumberland? Oh, but I forgot. Your father lost all the family estates years ago, leaving you forced to marry for money. Though why in heaven’s name you thought I’d be a suitable choice astounds me.”
“I assumed you were a man who shared my values and opinions,” she said tightly. “Apparently I was quite deluded in my opinion.”
“Quite, thank God,” Miranda broke in.
Dorothea Pennington refused to even acknowledge her. “I’m afraid, sir, that the engagement is off.”
“I’m afraid, my dear Miss Pennington, that the engagement was never on. You are the very last woman I would consider marrying.”
He could almost imagine smoke coming out of those perfect, shell-like ears.
“No decent woman would have you,” she hissed.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. You may expect a happy announcement from me quite soon.” He wasn’t quite sure why he said it—it seemed to spring into his mouth from nowhere.
“Do not bother to send me an invitation.” Her voice was frosty.
“He won’t,” his cursed interfering sister volunteered. “I don’t believe Lady Carstairs would want you anywhere near her.”
He jerked to look down at her in astonishment when Miss Pennington let out an outraged shriek. “Lady Carstairs?” she cried. “Charity Carstairs? You’re marrying her? Why, she must be thirty years old.”
Damn his sister—he should drown her in the Thames as well. “I have yet to ask her,” he temporized.
“But she’ll say yes,” Miranda jumped in. “Because they’re in love. You don’t know the meaning of the word, Dorothea Pennington, and you never will. Now go away, do. We have a wedding to arrange.”
If the exquisitely well-behaved Dorothea Pennington had something near at hand she would have thrown it, Benedick decided, horror and amusement warring for control. He watched her stalk from the room, and he could tell from her horrified shriek when she clapped eyes on his scarred brother-in-law, lazily stretched out in the hall. They waited until they heard the front door slam, and then he turned to Miranda.
“What the hell did you mean, I’m marrying Melisande?” he demanded in a choked voice. “I most certainly am not.”
Her smile broadened. “I know you better than you think, Neddie. Stop fighting it. You want her, whether it’s practical or not. You should have her.”
“We don’t suit,” he said stiffly. “Besides, she despises me.”
“Well, that’s always a good sign. But we can deal with your love life later, once we’ve found Brandon. Any idea where he might have gone?”
He gave up then. His head ached too much to deal with all of this, and Dorothea Pennington would hardly be likely to spread rumors of her former suitor’s engagement—it would reflect too badly on her. He would have a few days to sort things out.
“Brandon,” he agreed, heading toward the open door. Lucien de Malheur was still there, an ironic expression on his face. He tensed when he saw Benedick, as if expecting another assault.
“I’m not going to kill you now,” Benedick said. “We need to fetch Brandon.”
“You’re not going to kill me ever,” Lucien said lazily, getting to his feet, his gold-headed cane in one strong hand. “Lead on, MacDuff.”