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“I noticed,” he said wryly. “Everyone did. You kept as far away as possible from the other shrieking maidens vying for the prize on the staircase, your hands locked behind your back as if in iron manacles.”
“And what is so very wrong with that, your grace?” she demanded, her voice warming with a tedious missionary fervor. “Nearly all the profits my sisters and I earn from Penny House are given directly to charity. That was my late father’s wish, and I mean to follow it always. Each time that you gentlemen amuse yourselves at our tables, you are helping feed and clothe and shelter the poor in ways you’d never do directly.”
“No,” Guilford said dryly, not in the least interested in the poor or how they dined. “I wouldn’t.”
“Well, then, there you are, your grace,” she said, as if this were explanation enough, which it wasn’t. True, she was a clergyman’s daughter, but, in Guilford’s opinion, her soul was as mercenary as they came. “Why should I wish to marry for the sake of one single man when I can do so much more good for so many others by being here?”
“Because you are a woman, my dear,” Guilford answered, offering his own perfect explanation. “No matter how much you wish it, you can’t do everything by yourself, and most especially you can’t save the entire world. You can’t even save the lower scraps of London. Of course, charity work is an admirable pastime for a lady, but a home, a husband and children must surely come first. It’s in your blood, your very bones. Not even you can deny nature, Miss Penny.”
“Is this part of the wagering at White’s, too, your grace?” she asked suspiciously. “That I am somehow…unnatural?”
“Not exactly unnatural, no.” With his eyes accustomed to the half-light, he’d no trouble seeing her, but he still couldn’t tell if she were angry or amused—not that it would make any particular difference to him. “I do believe ‘virago’ was the term that was used.”
She gasped, and to his satisfaction, he realized he’d finally struck home.
“They dared call me a virago?” she repeated with disbelief. “A virago?”
She charged into the room and straight to him, the heels of her slippers clicking across the polished floor. He could feel her anger like a force in the darkness, her blue eyes wide and her gaze intense, her mouth set in a line of furious determination. He’d known her for nearly a year now, ever since she’d appeared in London from nowhere to open Penny House, yet this was the first time he’d seen the ever-proper, ever-capable Miss Penny lose both her composure and her temper.
It was even better than he’d dreamed.
“A virago, your grace!” she said again, as if she couldn’t say the hateful word enough times. “What—what ninny dared call me that?”
“How the devil should I tell?” Even though he’d given her leave to sit, she showed no intention of doing so, which made him suppose he must stand, too. With a sigh he rose, stretching his arms a bit as he now gazed down on her. “I don’t know everything.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” she said quickly. “At least you’d know that.”
“You’re granting me an inordinate amount of knowledge, Miss Penny.” Of course, he knew the name of the ninny who’d dubbed her a virago in the betting book at White’s; he knew, because the ninny’s name happened to be his own. “I’ll admit to being vastly wise and clever, but I’m hardly omniscient.”
She folded her arms over her chest and tipped her chin upward, so that she could still give the impression of glaring down her nose at him despite how he loomed over her. But he liked how she hadn’t the rabbity look of most women with copper hair, her brows and lashes dark enough to frame her blue eyes. “No one has ever called you a virago, your grace.”
“No one shall, either,” he said. “Considering how a virago must be female by definition.”
“A spinster, and a virago,” she said with disgust. “I should take myself directly to the middle of Westminster Bridge, toss myself into the river and spare the world the burden of my dreadful shame.”
He laughed softly, deep and low. “You’re not old enough for such a grim remedy.”
“No?” Her blue eyes glowed with fresh challenge as she took a step toward him—something that, under ordinary circumstances, he’d doubt she’d ever do. “I’m twenty-six, your grace.”
“Congratulations.” He’d already known she was past being a miss, and had grown into a much more interesting age for a woman. Dithering innocence had long ago lost its appeal to him, which was one of the reasons she fascinated him. “But I’ll win that battle, Miss Penny. I’m twenty-nine.”
“And what of it?” she scoffed, sweeping her hand through the air. “No one is telling you you’ve failed because you have chosen a life that includes neither a husband nor children.”
“Actually I’m told that rather often,” he said, remembering how shrill certain members of his family could become on his lack of an heir to his title. “Married life and children by the dozen are supposed to be good things for a peer, too.”
“But for different reasons.” She kept her head turned to one side, watching him warily from beneath her lashes. “I cannot fathom why you’re confiding any of this to me, your grace.”
“To show we have more in common than you might first think, my dear.” Had she any notion of how wickedly seductive that notion was right now? Perhaps he’d misjudged her; perhaps she was more willing than anyone had realized. “We do, you know.”
“Hardly, your grace.” Her mouth curved in a small smile of undeserved triumph. “You were born heir to a title and a grand fortune, while I came into this world as the daughter of a country minister. This leaves precious little common ground between us.”
“More than enough.” He shrugged extravagantly, taking advantage of the moment and the cozy half-light to ease himself a shade closer to her. “Vastly more.”
But instead of laughing as he’d expected, she folded her arms resolutely over her chest, a barrier between them. “I suspect you’re not being entirely honest with me, your grace.”
She was right, of course. He wasn’t being entirely honest. That wager in the betting book at White’s about wedding the formidably untouchable Miss Penny had been only the beginning. He’d made another, more private, wager with one of his friends, with odds—steep odds—for a much greater challenge: that no mortal man could successfully seduce her.
And Guilford—Guilford intended to win not only the wager, but to earn a welcome in the virago’s bed for himself.
“I wouldn’t say you’ve been entirely honest with me, either, Miss Penny,” he said, lowering his voice to the rough whisper that reduced most ladies to quivering jelly. “Which is only one more way that we’re alike, isn’t it?”
She frowned. “Your grace, I do not see how—”
“Hush,” he whispered. With well-practiced ease he reached for her hand where it clasped her other arm, slipping his fingers between her own to draw her hand free. “Consider the similarities, sweet, and not the differences.”
“What I am considering, your grace, is exactly how much longer I must listen to this foolishness before I summon my house guards.” Deftly she pulled her hand free, shaking her fingers as if they’d been singed by a fire. “I don’t believe you’ve met them before. Large fellows, of few words, but significant height and muscle, and quite protective of my welfare. I’m sure they’d be honored by the privilege of escorting you from this house.”
Undeterred, Guilford concentrated on flashing his most charming smile. “That’s harsh talk between friends, Miss Penny.”
She smiled in return, but with her it was all business and precious little charm. “Ah, but that is where you err, your grace. I am the mistress and proprietor of this house, while you are one of its honored members. Cordiality is not true friendship, nor shall it ever be otherwise between us.”
He winced dramatically, placing his hand over his heart. “How can I accept such cruel finality?”
“You stand on Penny House’s membership committee, your grace,” she said, reminding him gently, as if he were in his dotage. “Perhaps you should recall the rules of behavior for all members that you helped draft and approve, rules that make expulsion mandatory for any gentleman who oversteps. How very much we’d hate to lose your company that way, your grace!”
Guilford shifted his hand from the place over his heart to the front of his shirt, as if he’d intended all the time to smooth the fine Holland linen. “Ahh, Miss Penny, Miss Penny,” he said, coaxing. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
In the grate behind them, the last charred log split and collapsed into the embers with a hiss of sparks and ash.
“If you knew me as well as you claim, your grace, you’d know that if you tried to compromise me or anyone else on my staff, or even Penny House itself, I’d do exactly—exactly—that.” Amariah smiled serenely. “Now if you’ll excuse me, your grace, I’ll see that your carriage is brought around to the door.”
Guilford watched her go, the plume nodding gracefully over her head with each brisk step. She might have won today, but this was only the opening skirmish. He’d be back. He wasn’t going to let her get the better of him, not like this.
And no matter how she felt toward him now, he still meant to win that blasted wager.
Chapter Two
“F orgive me, Miss Penny, but are you certain you’ll be well enough on your own here tonight?” Pratt, the manager of Penny House, lingered still in the doorway to her private rooms. Below his old-fashioned wig, his narrow face was lined with worry as he watched Amariah light the candlesticks on her desk. “I can ask one of the maids to come sit up with you if you wish.”
As tired as she was, Amariah still smiled. “Thank you, Pratt, but I’ll be fine here by myself.”
He pursed his lips. “But, Miss Penny, if—”
“I told you, Pratt, I’ll be fine.” Amariah blew out the rush she’d used to light the candlesticks. “I need you far more as the club manager than as my personal broody hen.”
“Very well, miss.” Pratt sighed with resignation and bowed, a fine dust of white powder from his wig wafting forward. “Good night, miss.”
“Good night to you, too, Pratt,” she said softly. She really was fond of him, broody hen or not, and she certainly couldn’t have made Penny House the success it was without his experience and constant guidance. “And thank you again for all your extra work today with Miss Bethany’s wedding. Or rather, with Lady Callaway’s wedding. Oh, how long it’s going to take me to remember that!”
She laughed ruefully. It would be difficult for her to remember the change in her middle sister’s name and in her rank, too, just as she still occasionally forgot to call her youngest sister Mrs. Blackley instead of simply Miss Cassia, and she’d been wed to Richard for months. But in Amariah’s mind, they’d both always be just her two little sisters Bethany and Cassia, turning to her the way they had ever since their mother had died nearly twenty years before.
“You’ll remember, miss,” Pratt said, and bowed again. “Good night, miss.”
He closed the door softly, and for the first time in this long, long day, Amariah was alone. Finally she let the weariness roll over her, and with an extravagant yawn she dropped into the chair behind the desk, pulling the coverlet she kept there up over her shoulders as a makeshift shawl. She kicked off her slippers and tugged the white plume from her hair and the hairpins with it, rubbing her fingers across her scalp as her now-loose hair slipped and fell down her back. She pulled the chair closer to the desk, poured herself a fresh cup of tea from the pot that Pratt had left her, and with a sigh she turned to the pile of unopened letters and cards and bills that needed replies. Though the club had been closed yesterday and today for Bethany’s wedding, the work involved with running Penny House never seemed to pause.
Quickly she sorted through the stack of papers, dividing them into categories of importance. While handling her father’s correspondence for the parish and the rectory was hardly on the same scale as Penny House, it had prepared her for trade and bookkeeping in ways that most young women of her station weren’t. This was the special ability she’d brought to Penny House, balancing costs against expenses and remaining firm with tradesmen, just as Bethany’s gift with cookery had made the club’s suppers famous, and Cassia’s knack for finding treasures in secondhand shops had turned the huge sow’s ear that Penny House had been when they’d inherited it into the most fashionably appointed gaming house in London. The best part of all was knowing how much money they raised every night for charity, exactly as Father had intended. Running Penny House made Amariah feel like that ancient old rascal Robin Hood, taking from the rich to give to the poor.
Amariah smiled as she dipped her pen into the ink, remembering how the three sisters from the country had proved the doubters so completely wrong. But now marriage had reduced the three Pennys to one, and the never-ending work of running the club would be in her hands alone. There would be even more late nights and early mornings like this one for her, and resolutely she cracked the seal on the next letter, determined to make more headway before she went to bed.
But the harder she tried to concentrate on the sheet before her, the more the figures seemed to swim before her eyes, and the more, too, that her thoughts seemed determined to wander off onto the most unproductive path imaginable.
A path that led directly to the too-charming smile of His Grace the Duke of Guilford.
She put down her pen and groaned, rubbing her eyes with her hands. The duke was certainly not the first gentleman in the club to press his familiarity with her or her sisters, nor would he likely be the last, not with a membership made entirely of men from birth accustomed—and expecting—to have their own way.
Guilford, however, had taken her by surprise. Oh, he was worldly and witty enough for this kind of foolish, flirtatious game; there was no doubt of that. But until now he’d always been careful to keep most of his considerable charm reined in where she was concerned. He’d tease her, compliment her, tell her jests and banter with her, but that was all. No wonder he’d become one of her favorite gentlemen. He’d respected her and her role at Penny House. He’d understood why she must keep herself more pure and honorable than Caesar’s wife for the sake of the club’s viability, and why it would be so disastrous if she didn’t. On one occasion, he’d even come to Cassia’s defense when another guest had cornered her and made untoward overtures.
Now everything had changed. Of course, she’d try to give the duke the benefit of the doubt, and pretend the brandy had been speaking instead of him; but she could recognize a man half-gone with drink, and he hadn’t been like that. He’d behaved as he did simply because he’d wanted to, because he’d thought he would succeed, and she’d never be able to feel at ease with him again.
With a grumble of frustration she shoved her chair back from the desk and padded across to the window in her stocking feet, drawing the coverlet around her arms like folded wings. She pushed aside the damask curtain and gazed out over the club’s tiny enclosed backyard and across the slate roofs and chimneys of London. Though the stars still shone here and there in the sky, the horizon was beginning to pale with the coming dawn. All across the city, there would be hundreds of people whose workdays had already begun—bakers, milkmaids, fishmongers, stable boys, scullery maids—yet, as Amariah stared out over those rooftops, she felt as if she were the only one awake in the entire city.
You can’t do everything by yourself, Miss Penny….
Why had he waited in the dark like that for her, turning the back parlor into his own seductively cozy lair? How had he known exactly the way to ruffle her usual composure, teasing her with that nonsense about being a virago? He’d smiled down at her, his single dimple punctuating his face and his dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead; his deep, lazy voice made for sharing secrets and wooing women into madness.
Was that why she’d almost weakened when he’d taken her hand, almost forgotten everything she worked so hard for every day and night, almost traded it all away for what the Duke of Guilford could offer by the half-light of a dying fire?
She rested her spread fingers on the windowpane, the glass cool beneath her palm, and bowed her head. She was so tired that even her bones seemed to ache. Surely that must be what was making her think like this, casting empty wishes to the morning star for a gentleman she’d never have: weariness, and nothing more.
No matter how much you wish it, you can’t do everything by yourself….
“That’s the one,” said Guilford, tapping his knuckles on the jeweler’s counter for emphasis. “That will do the trick.”
“Ah, your grace, you do know what will please a lady.” Mr. Robitaille nodded, and ran his hand lightly over the surface of the bracelet’s rubies. As one of the most popular—and costly—jewelers here on Bond Street, old Robitaille himself knew a thing or two about pleasing a lady. The bracelet was a pretty trinket: rubies set like tiny red flowers, centered with pearls, and exactly what was needed to earn his place in the eyes of Miss Amariah Penny. In his experience, jewels never, ever failed.
“What pleases a lady is anything in this shop, Robitaille,” he said cheerfully, “which you know as well as I do. But what lady doesn’t like rubies, eh?”
Robitaille chuckled. “As you say, your grace, as you say. Shall I have it sent to Miss Danton, as usual?”
“I fear not.” Guilford frowned, trying to look serious as he heaved a sigh as deep as the ocean. “It’s a terrible tale, Robitaille. Charlotte Danton has thrown me over for the master of the Derby Hunt.”
“No, your grace!” Shocked, the jeweler drew back, the bracelet clutched in his hand. “I cannot believe the lady would abandon you!”
“Oh, it’s true,” Guilford said with another sigh. The real truth was that he’d tired of Charlotte at precisely the same time that she’d wearied of him, but because she’d been the one who’d abandoned their sinking ship first, he considered himself free of any further obligations, either of the heart or the pocket. No wonder he’d jumped at that wager involving Amariah Penny as a new diversion.
“I am most sorry for your pain and your loss, your grace.” Robitaille bowed his head in sympathy, as dutifully full of respect as any mourner hired for a burial. Almost as an afterthought, he looked down at the bracelet still in his hands. “Might I ask where the bracelet should be sent, your grace?”
“To Penny House, St. James.” Guilford smiled, glad to be done with the sighing and moaning over Charlotte. “To Miss Amariah Penny.”
“Miss Penny, your grace?” Robitaille’s mouth formed a perfect oval of surprise. “Miss Amariah Penny of Penny House? Oh, your grace, you amaze me!”
His wonder was so complete that Guilford laughed. “Do you think she’s unworthy of me, Robitaille, or that I am unworthy of her?”
“Neither, your grace, of course not,” the jeweler said quickly, “but Miss Penny is…a different sort of lady, isn’t she?”
“She’s some old parson’s daughter, she has hair as red as flame, and she’s clever enough to earn her own keep,” Guilford said, smiling as he recalled how upset she’d been with him last night. “I suppose that does make her a change from my usual fare.”
The jeweler laid the bracelet back down upon the silk-covered pillow on the counter, straightening the links with the tip of one finger into a neat line.
“She won’t take the bracelet, your grace,” he said definitively. “Not Miss Penny, nor her sisters, either. They won’t accept gifts from this shop from any of my gentlemen. They claim their position won’t permit it.”
“Hah, that’s nonsense, Robitaille,” scoffed Guilford. “I’ve seen how she decks herself out every night at the club, sparkling like a queen. She didn’t get diamonds and sapphires like those from her papa in the vicarage.”
Robitaille sniffed with disdain. “They’re all paste, your grace. I’ve seen her myself, from afar. Good paste, from Paris, but paste nonetheless.”
Guilford frowned a bit, unable to accept this. To him, genuine or paste looked much the same, but he did believe in the value of quality, and in paying for it, too. “Why the devil would she wear paste, when she could have the real thing?”
“Charity, your grace,” said Robitaille with a fatalist’s resignation. “She wants nothing for herself, nor did her sisters. I cannot tell you how many pieces have been sent to the ladies of Penny House, your grace, and exactly the same number have been returned.”
“But they haven’t been sent by me,” Guilford said, his confidence unshaken. “Miss Penny and I have always gotten on famously. You’ll see. This bracelet won’t come back.”
But the jeweler’s doleful face showed no such conviction. “As you say, your grace,” he said with the most obsequious of bows. “Thank you for your custom, your grace. I’ll have it taken to the lady directly.”
“Good.” And as Guilford turned away from the counter, he realized his pride had just made another, unspoken wager with Robitaille: that his bracelet would be the first accepted and displayed upon the lovely pale wrist of Amariah Penny.
It was the muted rattle of the dishes on the breakfast tray that first woke Amariah, followed by her maid Deborah’s tentative whisper.
“Good morning, Miss Penny,” Deborah said as she set the tray down on the table at the end of the bed. “Miss Penny? Are you awake, Miss Penny?”
Amariah rolled over in bed, shoving her hair from her eyes as she squinted at the face of the little brass clock on the table beside her head. She felt as if she’d only just fallen into bed, her head so thick and her eyes as scratchy as if she hadn’t slept at all. Surely Deborah had come too soon; surely it couldn’t be time to wake already.
“What time is it?” she asked, her voice scratchy and squeaky with sleep.
“Half past noon, miss,” the maid answered apologetically. “I know you must still be dreadful weary after the wedding and all, but Mr. Pratt said you’d have his head if he let you sleep any later.”
“Pratt’s right.” Groggy, Amariah kept her face still pressed into her pillow for another second more. It was time she woke; she usually rose at eleven, and now she’d lost that hour and a half of usefulness forever, never to be recaptured. “I would have his head.”
Somehow she found the will to push herself upright just as Deborah drew back the curtains to the window, letting the bright noonday sun flood the room, and with a groan Amariah flopped back onto the pillow, her arm flung over her eyes.
“Forgive me, miss, but Mr. Pratt said it’s the only way to—”
“I know what Mr. Pratt said,” said Amariah, marshaling herself for another attempt, “though knowing he is right doesn’t make it any more agreeable.”
“Forgive me for being forward, miss, but everything will be more agreeable after a nice dish of tea.” Deborah lifted the small silver pot and poured the steaming tea into one of the little porcelain cups, adding sugar and lemon. Then she tipped the fragrant liquid into the deep-bottomed dish and handed it to Amariah. “Your favorite pekoe, miss.”
“Thank you, Deborah.” Carefully Amariah took the saucer, her fingers balancing the worn, gold-rimmed edge. Painted with purple irises, the tea set was one of the few things the sisters had had from their mother, and for Amariah, using the delicate porcelain each morning was a small, comforting way to remind herself of her long-past childhood in Sussex.
Deborah shifted the tray to the bed, reaching behind Amariah to plump her pillows higher. “You see, miss, that Mrs. Todd cooked your eggs just the way that Miss Bethany—I mean, Lady Callaway—did for you, with them little grilled onions on the side.”
