“No, ma’am.” Penelope would have laughed if she had not been so full of tears. “I was not in love with the late duke.”
“Pish tosh.” Aunt Sarah made a decidedly unladylike sound of disagreement. “I know a girl in love when I see one.”
Penelope felt her face flame. But why should she be ashamed—loving Beech had been everything right and good, even if it was ruinous. “I am in love,” she admitted. “Or feel I am—but it feels terrible. I seem to have jumped from the cold frying pan into the burning fire. And got myself properly roasted as a result.”
“Have you?” Aunt Sarah was all avid interest. “Tell me all.”
Penelope almost didn’t know where to begin. “I didn’t mean to, but I’ve somehow fallen in love with Caius’s brother, the current duke—Marcus. So, you see why it is so impossible.”
“Good God.” Aunt Sarah was so astonished she stood, unceremoniously dumping the cat from her lap. “Marcus Beecham? Of course—the naval man, and quite the hero, from what I’ve read. Of course, you would fall in love with him.”
She made it sound so simple. “Yes, I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
“One never can,” Aunt Sarah consoled. “So, what went wrong?”
“Everything,” Penelope said, even though so many things had gone perfectly with Beech—they had shared a true affinity. “But I suppose I didn’t have the courage to stay.”
Didn’t have the courage to watch Beech make the choice she knew he must.
“My dear girl.” Aunt Sarah came to take Penelope’s face in her frail arthritic hands. “If you love him, you must face your fears. You must go to him.”
Penelope felt fresh tears sting her eyes. “What if it’s too late? What if he’s been persuaded he no longer wants me?”
“Oh, well.” Her aunt waved her hand as if she were waving a wand and could keep such terrible things from happening. “Then you will come back to me, and we will drink tea with more brandy than is advisable, and we will cry, and we will rub along together as comfortable and consoling as two old house cats, with no one but ourselves the wiser. And in the spring, when the weather turns, we shall travel.” Aunt Sarah patted her hand. “I’ve always wanted to see Venice.”
Penelope felt heat pool behind her eyes at such a generous idea. “So have I.”
“Good.” Aunt Sarah patted her cheek. “Then make that duke of yours take you.”
Penelope could no longer keep the tears from falling. “I’m not sure I know how.”
“Sweet girl,” Aunt Sarah scoffed. “You have but to smile.”
Penelope found her mouth curving obediently. “You make it seem so simple.”
“It is,” Aunt Sarah, insisted. “Go to him. Tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep and washed those tears from your eyes. And wear a crimson cloak.” Aunt Sarah beamed at Penelope, all cat in cream. “You’ll look ravishing against the snow.”
BUT IN THE MORNING, Penelope did not go to him.
Because he came to her.
Somehow, someway, he had found her—the ducal carriage jangled in the frosty lane, and Beech himself was striding purposefully across the narrow bridge to the house, his boots kicking up snow as he came.
And then he was there, bending his tall form to fit in the low-ceilinged house. Staring at her. Looking in wonder and not accusation.
Looking in love.
Lord, but they grew them fine, these Beecham boys. He was impossibly handsome, made neat and tidy by her shears. Or at least made neater and tidier—there was no ridding him of his devilishly piratical seafaring air.
“Good Lord, Beech,” she said because she didn’t know quite what else to say. “I do hope you’ve come to marry me.” Despite her best effort at wry nonchalance, her voice quavered and cracked with the unspoken question—would he have her? Had she left it too late?
But Beech was as honest and loyal and steadfast as they came. “I have.” He let out a deep exhalation. “Let us do so at once.”
Penelope smiled. “Right now? Surely I’m meant to at least offer you a hot dish of tea first?”
“The only warmth I need is you.” He patted his coat as he stepped nearer. “I have used the hours since you left me wisely—I have that marriage license I boasted I could procure.”
Relief, gratitude and sheer unadulterated love made her giddy. “You’re sure? Your mother—”
“I won’t be persuaded against you, Pease Porridge. Not now. Not ever.”
“You really are the bravest man, Beech. Well then.” She held out her hand to him.
He reached for her as if it had been a burden not to touch her. Not to place a kiss upon the back of her hand. Not to show her how relieved and pleased and grateful he was, too. “Thank you, my darling girl.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Beech,” she teased. But she could only smile. Because the sun was shining, and she loved him. They were going to marry, and everything was going to be all right. “Make me a duchess first.”
CHAPTER 16
MARCUS and his Pease Porridge followed the snow-covered path from Hayholm Mote beside the frozen river, hand in hand, with the snow crunching beneath their feet.
It seemed like the right moment to pledge his troth. “I have something else for you.”
Pease Porridge laughed her surprise. “A wedding present?”
“A before-the-wedding present.” He held out a thickly folded piece of paper it had taken him half the night to prepare. “A valentine.”
“Beech.” She regarded him through her lashes. “Dare I ask if it is smutty?”
“It is not smutty.” He extended her the packet. “It is my heart.”
She took the valentine from his hand with solemn reverence, and carefully turned it to and fro to find the beginning of the puzzle. And then she began to read. “Dear love, this heart which you behold, which breaks apart as you unfold,”—she turned the valentine to continue—“cannot show my truefast love, which came to us as from above.” She smiled up at him and the sun made a halo of her frosted breath. “That’s very sweet, Beech.”
“There’s more.” He tried to point out the intricacy of the design. “It’s a puzzle you have to unfold.”
“Thank you, Beech—I am aware of how valentines work.” She peeled off her gloves to pull carefully at a corner. “My dearest dear, my own true love, you’ve given me my heart. Each moment long, each day divine, you to me impart, the greatest care, the greatest love, that my life might be part.”
It sounded dreadfully trite in the cold clear light of morning. “I beg you will remember, I am a sailor, not a poet.”
“Hush, Beech, I’m getting to the good part. Look all these lovely pretty flowers. Did you really draw them yourself? Charmingly done.” She cleared her throat slightly to resume reading. “With you by me, and I by you, as steadfast as the sun, ne’ermore be parted, but live in love, so our hearts beat as one.”
“Oh, Beech.” She threw her arms around his neck, and he felt the warm wet of her tears against his skin. “You really are the kindest, sweetest man.”
“I only wish to be your kindest, sweetest man.” He made his voice unnecessarily gruff to counter his sentiment. “The rest of the world can go to the devil.”
“Yes, well.” She laughed and disentangled herself from his embrace, so she might fold the valentine carefully away. “Well they might go to the devil, but we had best get ourselves to the Lord.”
THEIR FOOTSTEPS ECHOED in the quiet nave of St. Michael of Hayholm, carrying them up the short aisle to stand in front of the vicar, who stamped his feet to bring feeling back into his chilly toes.
“Are we all here, then? Your Grace of Warwick?” The vicar checked the man against the title on the license. “Been some time since I married anyone with one of these—regular license, and not special.”